


Blighted

by elenathehun



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brotherhood, Forest of Death, Gen, M/M, Mokuton Magic, Politics, Summons & Summoning Meta, Weasel Summons, villain!Hashirama, zetsu - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-10-08 12:46:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10386945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenathehun/pseuds/elenathehun
Summary: Fifteen years after those fateful meetings by the Nakano River and Madara's life has not gone even remotely close to plan.  There is no war in the Land of Fire anymore - but only because Senju Hashirama has killed or exiled anyone who refuses to bow to his rule.  The Uchiha, dispossessed and homeless, make their living on the scrublands between the lands of Fire and Wind, guiding refugees out to freedom and guarding against the encroaching Forest, always careful to never delve too deeply into the realm where Mokuton controls all.  One day, refugees bring word that the walls of the last free city in the Land of Fire have fallen to the might of the God of Shinobi.  With them comes a dead man with an audacious plan to overthrow Hashirama and save their world - if only he can convince the rest of Hashirama's enemies to band together once and for all.





	1. rivers run dry, part one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hiruma_Musouka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiruma_Musouka/gifts).



"Sir, Captain Sakamae has requested your presence at the bridge. We have a situation developing on the other side of the canyon," the runner said in a near-whisper. Madara only heard it because he wasn't _quite_ asleep when the boy arrived—but he wasn't quite awake, either, which was why he was still fastening his _han-kote_ over the sleeves of his shirt when his brother poked his head through the doorway. 

"Good, you're up," Izuna said hoarsely. He looked like Madara felt: miles of bad road, with an ambush at the end of it. "Apparently a large group of refugees is at the eastern rim of the canyon, and more may be coming."

"How many?" Madara grumbled, pulling his sandals on as they left the single shack allotted to command and started walking up the barren path to the watchtower on the edge of the cliff. "There can't be _that_ many free villagers left in Fire at this point."

"Sakamae has counted several hundred, so far," Izuna said, matter-of-fact. "She can't tell how many more are coming because the Forest's aura is blocking our vision more than usual."

Madara hissed through his teeth, and accordingly sped up. "Breakfast says they're being chased by zetsu."

"I'm not taking that bet," Izuna said, smiling mirthlessly. "I sent the runner to Takeichi with a message to get everyone in formation at the watchtower in the next fifteen minutes. We'll need everyone we've got on hand, given the number of people we'll need to process."

Madara nodded, and for the next few minutes, the brothers were silent as they climbed first one, then another switchback on the steep path up to the watchtower, strangely surefooted in the peculiar deep darkness of a night with heavy cloud cover. Other camps, held by other clans, would have lit the path with torches; but this camp was held by the Uchiha Clan, and darkness was no great obstacle to overcome. Down near the bottom of the hill, Madara could hear Takeichi ringing his bell, getting everyone up and in order. He was a fast lead; Madara knew he'd have the whole camp awake and on the march in less than fifteen minutes, if that. At the top of the hill, the watchtower loomed, more a sensation of pressure than anything seen with sight.

Once Madara reached the tower, he saw a group of sentries and guards, tightly clustered around a tall figure in the standard armor of their clan: Sakamae. She was peering through a telescope, trying to aid her vision. Madara turned his own eyes to the other side of the canyon and tried to see as well: Sure enough, the dim flicker of dozens upon dozens of untrained chakra systems milled around on the eastern rim. 

"Hell of a night for pitched battle, don't you think?"

Madara ignored the speaker, a man in the traditional robes and face paint of a nin from the Land of Wind, instead electing to walk straight past him and stand near Sakamae.

"Lord Madara," she said, not bothering to take the telescope from her eye. "I'm glad you're here. I've counted over seven hundred people across the canyon, and more keep arriving."

"Does the Forest show any signs of incipient growth?" Madara asked, scanning the tree line himself. It was quiet and still, but that could change in a heartbeat.

"None so far, but I've already authorized arming the catapults," she said curtly. "We've pulled out all the extra projectiles as well—I have a feeling we might need them before the night is through."

"Good thinking," he replied. "When Takeichi gets here, have him organize three fire teams—I'm certain we'll need them as well."

"Yes, sir," she said, clenched fist knocking against her chest plate. She handed off the telescope to one of the sentries, already motioning for them to gather closer for orders. Madara took a few steps back, and turned to look back at the other side of the canyon, and the tree-line further still. 

"That was more than a little rude, brother." Izuna's tone was reproachful, but his eyes had a mischievous spark in them. "Sotan was a little put out you just walked past him without saying hello."

Madara just sneered in response. "That gasbag prattles on far too much. Why is he even here? I thought Jakuchu was currently stationed here."

"Wife just gave birth to their sixth child," Izuna said, shrugging casually. "Apparently it was a hard labor; we're stuck with Sotan until Jakuchu returns."

"His elders couldn't dig up anyone else for this area?" Madara asked in exasperation.

"Brother, Sotan may talk too much, but he is a professional, and quite capable of leading his clan members stationed here," Izuna said, not without some measure of sympathy. "You'll be moving on to the next post soon enough; I think you can deal with him until then.” 

There was nothing Madara could say to his brother when he took that tone; he sounded exactly like their mother in a mood. Down the hill, Madara saw a formation marching up with Takeichi’s spare, lean figure in the lead. Sotan was walking towards the tower from the canyon edge. A sturdy blonde girl was arguing at him from a half-stride behind. Somewhere past the Forest, the barest hint of gray touched the eastern sky. 

Madara sighed, then raked a hand through his hair. He took a deep breath to center himself, then turned on his right heel toward the door of the watchtower, jerking his head for Izuna to enter first. Sakamae slipped in a bare moment behind them, and busied herself pulling out the area and regional maps and pinning them to the table. By the time she had them arranged to her satisfaction, Takeichi and the other team leads had filed in, followed by Sotan and his aide. There was a serious look on the Sand-nin's painted face. Once everyone was inside, he unceremoniously shoved the girl forward towards the table. She startled a bit, gray-green eyes wide, and Madara had a nagging feeling that he ought to recognize her from some other meeting.

"My niece has some interesting news from the other side of the canyon," Sotan said seriously. “Shigeru, what do you currently see?”

To her credit, the girl didn't hesitate once prompted, and immediately launched into a report. "I sent a third eye to the other side to observe the refugees and confirm headcount. Currently there are eight hundred and twenty-three—no, eight hundred and twenty-eight—people waiting to cross. Most of them speak the eastern dialect—"

On the other side of the room, Madara saw Takeichi roll his eyes and mouth the words "eastern dialect" incredulously at Mamiko. She, in turn, was clearly not paying any attention to him. Sakamae was, however, and she quickly sent him a quelling glance.

"—although some seem to speak dialects from areas closer to the Eastern Sea. They’re wearing the clothing of petty merchants and traders, with a few craftsmen mixed in. Lastly, they're addressing their prayers towards Uka no Mitama. All this, plus the unprecedented number of refugees we're seeing, leads me to believe that Kurashiki has fallen."

There was dead silence throughout the room for a split second, and then the gathered soldiers erupted into protests. 

"You can't be serious—"

"Kurashiki? With the engineers they have access to? No chance of th—"

"Don't be a fool, any wall can be bro—"

"There are _fifty-thousand people_ living within Kurashiki's walls. I can't believe—"

"Everyone, enough," Izuna snapped, his patience finally falling short. Once the room quieted, he addressed his next question directly to Sotan's young aide. "Have you been able to make contact and confirm this with any of the refugees in question?" 

The girl shook her head sharply, tendrils of sandy blonde hair pulling free from her braid. "No, Commander, but I feel it's a near certainty."

Izuna sighed. "All right. Let's say you're right, and Kurashiki has fallen. It doesn't change anything for us right now. We still need to check all those people for plants, and get them over the canyon before whoever the Leaf sends after them catches up. To that end, our overall strategy will remain the same. Mamiko will be the catapult captain for the shift—given the amount of people out there, I want you to be free with our supply of weed killer. I'd rather run out before the next shipment then lose a team to the Forest."

Mamiko nodded seriously, already scribbling notes and equations on a spare piece of paper. An ugly, worried murmur moved throughout the room after Izuna's instructions. Madara knew damn well what the issue was: their shipments of weed killer always came from Kurashiki, as did allshipments of herbicide on the Western frontier of Leaf. If Kurashiki had indeed fallen, it will wreak hell on one of their principal methods of fighting back the ever-encroaching Forest.

"Sotan," Madara interjected. "How long can your team keep the bridges up? There's hours of work ahead of us, and I'd like to be sure they don't fall out from under us halfway through."

The question was blunt bordering on rude, but it did exactly what it was supposed to do: move everyone's focus _away_ from events they couldn't influence in any possible way. Anxiety, uncertainty, fear of the unknown: all three conditions make the work so much harder to bear. Madara could at least try to redirect that energy towards something productive. Sotan was still a fast-talking bastard, but Izuna was right: he knew his kin's capabilities intimately, and didn't take any criticism of their skills lightly.

"As I'm sure you already know, given the many, _many_ discussions we've had on this topic previously, maintaining the bridges is no problem once they're created," Sotan said, an edge to his normally genial voice. "Shigeru, Kichibei, and I can create and destroy perhaps a half-dozen bridges each, and still have energy to fight. "

Madara nodded curtly in response. Not ideal, but still better than nothing. 

"Sakamae, Takeichi, and Itsuki." 

All three shift captains turned towards him, attentive as always. Itsuki had even left off chewing the end of her braid. 

"You three will be in charge of the checkpoint teams for the night. Form up your squads outside—I'll be floating between all three as necessary. We'll keep up just three bridges. Sotan, I'll expect you to stay fresh and act as defense on the other side, when the pursuit arrives." 

"Sir, are the fire teams going to go through the full decontamination procedure, or a modified version?" Sakamae asked, a faint frown creasing her brow. There was another rising murmur agreeing with her, and Madara repressed the urge to snap at them impatiently. It was an unworthy impulse to feel, as the question was perfectly sensible for Sakamae to ask. Izuna rescued him, as he always did in these moments.

"Yes and no. We don't have the time to carefully check everyone's belongings before they cross—at least, not if we want to actually finish before sunset! So we're going to tell everyone to strip, leave their clothing and other belongings in a specified zone, and submit to a physical examination before they cross. If we can, we'll sort through their belongings later, but given the way things usually go..." Izuna shrugged laconically.

"They're going to fight us on that," Takeichi said flatly. "They just lost everything, and now we're taking the clothes off their back, too?"

"it's either that, or remain on the wrong side of the border. We can't let even one seed cross over the rift. If they want to risk their own lives, they may, but they’re not going to risk ours with them," Izuna said firmly.

"We might need to insist on cutting their hair, too." Everyone turned to look at the blond girl. Her eyes were unfocused as she used her third eye to observe the refugees. "As I said, most of them don't look too wealthy, but you can tell they've been living in a walled city up to now: they all have long hair, and barely any of it is covered by a headscarf."

Madara huffed impatiently, only stopping when Izuna gave him a cutting glare. 

"Good observation, Shigeru! Sakamae, definitely arrange to give everyone a trim—doesn't need to be shaved, just short enough they can shake out any seeds and burrs caught in it. Any other suggestions?" Shigeru fairly grinned at Izuna’s praise, but not before giving Madara a quizzical look.

There was a long, quiet moment before Sakamae said, "No, I think that's all, sir."

Izuna nodded once, decisively, and said, "Indeed. You're dismissed—get to your stations, I want us to start processing everyone in the next five minutes! Mamiko, stay behind, I have some further instructions about the catapults for you."

Collectively, the crowd saluted, fist over heart, before filing outside. Madara lingered while Izuna spoke to Mamiko, staring at the maps of the area, tracing the pathways left out of Kurashiki. 

"So you've noticed it, too," Izuna said, leaning against the table with one hip. Madara just nodded in response: Kurashiki was under siege a long time. Five years ago, even three years ago, people fleeing could have taken ship and sailed downriver to the southern coast, but the Forest overtook that route a long time ago. The grasslands to the northwest have been a no-man's land since last spring. The only place to flee is straight west—straight towards the canyonlands, and the Uchiha camps garrisoning it.

"I'm going to get some runners prepped. Once we make contact and learn if Kurashiki has fallen or not, I'll send word to our sister camps both north and south alerting them to the possibility of more refugees, if they don't know already."

"No birds?" Madara said, looking at his brother sharply.

"Too much risk. They never seem to make it to their destination these days. A messenger is more certain." It was said in a neutral tone, but Izuna was no doubt thinking the same as Madara: the birds had only started disappearing in the last year, when the Forest had come within naked sight of the watchtowers.

* * *

By mid-morning, over a thousand souls had been processed, but hundreds more had arrived in the meantime. Kurashiki had indeed fallen, and with it the last bastion of non-Senju power within the borders of what used to be the old Land of Fire. There was still no sign of pursuit, and Madara felt the tension of the interminable wait like a tightly-wound screw between his shoulder-blades. Somewhere in the crowd, a child was wailing; it was counterpointed against the deep, wracking coughs of a old man. Madara idly hoped whatever the man had wasn't contagious, because they could hardly afford the expense of a quarantine.

"I bet you dinner they'll attack right as it begins to rain," Izuna mumbled bleakly, staring at the tree-line in the near distance. It looked like just an ordinary forest from here, with just the suggestion of sun-dappled light and the scent of humus. It was deceptive, though: the farther you traveled, the darker and more twisted the woods became, until all that remained was a sort of quiet, musty twilight...

Madara shook off the memories, then looked at the sky, still dark with heavy clouds. No one had emerged from the treeline in nearly three-quarters of an hour, and Madara knew from experience these were probably all the people they could save. Out near the salt break, Itsuki had the same idea, for some of her team was deftly setting up the wire traps that criss-crossed over the burnt, sterile ground, sentries keeping a wary eye on the looming trees. Madara looked back towards the cliffside and surveyed at the crowd of people still left. It would be at least another hour or more of processing, if all went well. 

"No bet," Madara replied, and rubbed his face with his palms for a moment. It didn't help with his headache, but then again, little did these days. When he scanned the crowd again, he saw a older man with a pockmarked face marching towards them with some purpose. It was Yoringa, from Itsuki's team.

"Lord Madara, Commander Izuna, we have a difficult case in holding. Itsuki would appreciate a second look," he said when he got within earshot. Madara and Izuna exchanged a surprised glance, and as one, they both start jogging toward the central holding area. Itsuki was young to be a team leader—she had only turned sixteen at the turning of the season—but she had activated the Sharingan when she was a little older than twelve, and she had both a good eye for the details that made a plant, and a remarkably even temperament. It was rare that she needed any kind of assistance.

When they got to the holding area, it was surprisingly full. There were a dozen wild, grimy children, gleefully stripping off their clothes, a rather voluptuous woman with the tan skin and sandy blonde hair of the people of Wind, already undressed and presenting herself for inspection with a wry look in her eyes, and lastly, a man with closed-shaved head, dressed in a ragged kimono, carrying what looked like a serviceable sword in a worn scabbard. 

"An _uchigatana_?" Izuna questioned out loud. "I don't see many of those these days. Noble-turned-monk, perhaps."

"And how many monks do you know with chakra systems that could rival our own?" Madara asked tightly, eyes narrowed, and Izuna _tsks_ as he re-activated his Sharingan.

"You know, according to the tales, all of them. Something about meditation being good for the body.... I'll admit to being a bit disappointed, though: shinobi pretending to be a monk is much less exciting," he said flippantly, and Madara suppressed the urge to slap him upside the head. "Wait… I know that woman. Her name is Samsi; her caravan always brings us our supply of weed killer. I don't think Itsuki knows her—she transferred in from the grasslands station after our last purchase."

Madara looked at her a little more closely, but still doesn't see anything out of the ordinary—but he supposed that was to be expected. He had met less than a handful of the Alchemist's couriers over the last few years, and all of them seemed utterly ordinary given their backgrounds: a salt trader in Cloud, when he’d traveled there five years ago for a potential alliance with some clans; a travelling priest he’d met on the high road through the mountains around Stone; a stubborn scholar cataloging plant life in the grasslands even as the vanguard of the Senju army arrived; a card shark from Fire who’d cheated him out of a succession of meals during his second-to-last visit in Lanshi. 

They’d all been utterly different, and utterly uninteresting, save for the fact they were apparently in contact with the biggest individual thorn in Senju Hashirama's side, aside from Madara himself. All Madara had learned from the meetings was the Alchemist, whoever he was, was a strange one. Madara could understand choosing covers and alibis that would explain the need for constant travel, but he didn't understand why his agents were _actually_ what they appeared to be instead of shinobi.

"All right," he murmured. "I'll interview our monk friend. Come get me if something comes up."

Izuna nodded briskly and loped away towards the woman, already calling a greeting—some kind of ribald joke, to judge from her scandalized laugh. When Madara turned to look at the other man, he stilled in surprise, for he was already being surveyed quite closely. 

At a closer distance, Itsuki's potential plant turned out to have very fine, aristocratic features. Madara idly marked the stubborn tilt of his chin and the firm set of his mouth: if it weren't for the Sharingan's ability to see chakra coils, the other man might very well have passed as nobleman-turned-monk, unwilling to give up his sword. The albinism only added to the aura—a noble’s son with that sort of affliction wasn't likely to inherit anything. Madara couldn't tell what color the monk's hair was—too closely shorn—but the red eyes and pale skin were a definite giveaway.

"Are we going to speak now, or are you just going to stare at me some more?" the other man questioned imperiously, and Madara scowled. Whoever he was, he was _good_. Madara had heard that exact tone of voice from petty chieftains and minor lords, drunk on their own importance and ignorant of exactly how quickly they could die. They’d only been saved from the blade of his sword by the money they were paying him and the potential ruin of his reputation.

"Well?"

Madara unclenched his jaw with effort. "Name and profession," he said flatly.

The other man arched a fine eyebrow—white, Madara noticed, now that he was looking—and shrugged, looking a little surprised. "Koji. Swordsman."

"Not a monk?" Madara questioned.

"No, I don't claim that identity," the albino said diffidently. "Given how you're making everyone cut their hair, I'm sure you've noticed the seeds of this new forest have a tendency to catch on anything they can. I traveled extensively outside of Kurashiki for work—it was safer to shave than worry about bringing something back on each trip." He laughed, darkly. "Not that my precautions saved us, in the end."

Despite himself, Madara felt a little sympathy. Koji seemed like all the other Alchemist couriers Madara had met over the years. The only difference was his overdeveloped chakra coils, which he had yet to explain.

"You call yourself a swordsman," Madara said slowly. "Who trained you?"

Koji just looked at him as though he was particularly stupid. "My clan, of course. Specifically one of my uncles, when I was a young boy."

"So you're a shinobi?" Madara asked skeptically.

Koji frowned a bit. "I was. Now I have no clan, so I call myself a swordsman."

Madara winced inside—he already knew how this story went, but the question must still be asked. "I'm sorry for asking this, but... your clan, were they killed by Hashirama?"

There was a very long pause. Koji's face was utterly inscrutable, in contrast to his demeanor in their earlier conversation. "No, worse. They joined him."

Madara looked at the man askance. “And what? They just let you leave?” he asked in disbelief.

The corners of Koji’s mouth turned down a little more, but that was the extent of his reaction. “Of course not,” he said hoarsely. “But I could not stay. Faced with that choice, would you?”

Madara can think of nothing to say to that. Join Hashirama, who has spent the last ten years crossing lines never meant to be crossed—or leave his family, possibly forever? That was never an option available to Madara, and in some ways, he’s glad he never had the choice. There was an awkward silence for another moment, and then Koji sighed and asked, "If the interview is finished, shall I strip?"

"A moment," Madara said, a little off-balance. "Why are all these children here?"

"Oh," Koji said, startled. "They refuse to be separated from me. Their usual caretaker didn't make it out of the city, so they're my responsibility until I can find them a new home."

He was... well, he was not quite smiling as he looked indulgently over the children, but it was a near thing. As if they knew he was watching, the squirming mass of children all turn to look at the other man and yell their various greetings and questions; they were obviously quite familiar with him. The not-quite-smile brightened just a smidge.

"Please strip," Madara ordered abruptly, and busied himself scanning the tree-line while the other man took off his robes. It's the work of a moment to re-center himself, and then Madara let the years of rote inspections take over as he gestures for the man to raise his arms, turn in a circle, and show the palms of his hands and soles of his feet, one by one. 

"Looks good," Madara finally said. "Please leave your belongings, including your clothes, in the designated area. Once you cross the bridge, there should be a worker handing out some kind of clothing, although it won't be much. We'll try to return your belongings to you within a few days, but I can't guarantee that. Additionally, given your unusual background, I would request that you and your... colleague please check back in with either myself or Commander Izuna before you depart the camp."

Koji nodded slowly, an assessing look in his eyes. "I understand," he said mildly, and bowed slightly in farewell before turning to the crowd of children ( _are there more of them now than there were earlier?_ ) and calling them in. Izuna waded through the crowd, somehow managing to always be a split-second away from some child’s grasping fingers, nodding absent-mindedly at Koji before making for Madara.

"So, Samsi vouches for our fake monk friend—apparently he's always been clear about his status as an ex-shinobi," Izuka said casually. "I wonder if we ever fought him? And from the way she was speaking, I think he might be closer to the Alchemist than any of the others I've met."

Madara shrugged, eyes still on the other man. "Pretty much the same, although I don't know about _that_. He seems just like any of the other couriers I've met," he said casually. Both brothers paused a moment to watch Koji corral the children and and offer a gallant arm to Samsi, only to be waved off by the woman as they made their way to the drop-off zone next to Bridge Three. 

"He seems like a very admirable man," Madara said haltingly, watching the man in question gently take one of the children by the hand and lead her forward—a little girl with a dirty blindfold tied around her eyes. He almost immediately regretted saying it, as his brother slowly turned to look at him. 

There was a very long pause, then Izuna laughed loudly. "Seriously, brother? I know you have a type, but thi—"

A piercing scream cut Izuna off. Both brothers turned in the direction of the scream, only to see a monstrous centipede stampede through the treeline. Sizzling acid dripped from razor-sharp pincers and weak sunlight glinted off a nearly-impenetrable carapace. Behind the first centipede, another one was already emerging into the open.

"Fuck!" Madara swore, sprinting towards the tree line. Izuna was already pulling ahead of him. Out of the corner of his eyes, Madara saw the refugees pushing closer to the canyon brim, jostling closer and closer to the already-broken bridges. The fire teams had already taken position on the salt break. As Madara crossed into the kill zone, he felt Sotan and his clan creating a wall on the designated barrier line.

Sakamae was already reporting in when he came to halt beside her, her team at the ready. "Six centipedes so far, sir, no sign of zetsu yet."

"Unlikely to remain that way, but let's deal with the obvious threat first," Madara said. "Are the traps primed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Get everyone in position; on my mark, we fire," he ordered. He watched the centipedes struggle through the initial defenses of the salt break. The mines they had bought from the Sand-nin’s mysterious western contacts were, as always, impeccable. The pressure sensors didn't go off for anything less than 200 _kanme_ , so they were perfect for the mutated beasts of the Forest. First one, then another of them struggled through the caltrops set over the minefield, only to be blown apart, piece by gory piece. The third one got a little further by walking over the bodies of its compatriots, but still died in a shower of gore before it could cross the kill zone.

The fourth one learned that it only needed to walk where its brothers had died to safely cross the minefield. There was an uneasy tension in the clan, but it was hardly unexpected: everything from the forest was smarter than it ought to be. Another two centipedes followed the new leader, and they paused at the second zone. The traps in that area were made of razor-sharp wire and spring-loaded needles, and they crisscrossed the area up to a height of fifteen _shaku_. The centipedes hesitated for a good long while—one of them even turned back towards the Forest—but again, that damnable fourth centipede realized it could simply arch over it with a little effort. 

"We need to kill the leader first," Madara said to Sakamae, and heard her mutter the target to the rest of her team. On his other side, Izuna had already prepped Itsuki and Takeichi. Madara waited for the lead centipede to close— _fifty shaku...forty shaku... thirty-five shaku...thirty-three shaku..._

"Mark!" Madara shouted as soon as the creatures finally breached their range. Three harpoons pierced the monster’s side almost instantaneously, one from each team. It shrieked as steaming black gore poured over the head of the harpoon onto the bare ground. Madara held up a hand. "Second rank, ready… Mark!" 

Like clockwork, the first rank retreated as the second rank took their place and fired. Another three harpoons whistled as they flew towards the second centipede. Only two of them hit center mass this time. The third overshot the creature by a half- _shaku_ and landed harmlessly in the ground by the first centipede. But it was good enough. Both centipedes were pinned to the ground by the harpoons, and wouldn’t be free for at least another moment. Madara closed his hand into a fist. At his side, Sakamae was already breathing in, hands steady in the handsigns for the Great Fireball—the entire second rank was doing the same. In unison, they all blew fire at the pinned centipedes. The smell of roasting chitin was both utterly unique and utterly nauseating. The creatures screamed shrilly as they twisted sinuously around the harpoons, pitch rising higher and higher until it hurt the ears. Finally they went still.

"I miss the days when they were still squishable," someone muttered behind him. Madara entirely agreed.

It was unnaturally quiet afterward. Madara peered past the smoking corpses to the tree-line beyond, still strangely quiescent. 

"Izuna, do you see anything?" he questioned urgently.

"No," Izuna said, sounding a bit shell-shocked. "I don't see a single zetsu at all."

"Maybe that's the worst of it," Takeichi said dourly, on Izuna's other side. "When a city the size of Kurashiki falls, there are going to be a lot of poor refugee bastards still in the Forest, taking up time and attention."

On Madara's left, Sakamae sighed impatiently, and opened her mouth to speak. Madara never learned what she was going to say. A zetsu burst out of the ground beneath her feet and neatly broke her neck.

Bedlam broke out all around him, but Madara only has eyes for the zetsu whose hands were around Sakamae's neck. "Axes out!" he roared, and as more zetsu rise from the ground, Uchiha began pulling their axes off their back holsters, and chopping at the creatures with a will. It was almost exactly like chopping down a living tree, made a hundred times more difficult by the zetsu's mobility and vast killing intent. Around him, Madara saw the bodies of his kinsmen—behind him, he heard the wall shake, and screams carry over.

 _The zetsu travelled under the salt break,_ Madara realised. _It didn't stop them for a second._

"Sotan, break the walls," Izuna screamed, his brother's voice cracking midway. But Sotan apparently heard him, and the walls came tumbling down. Madara looked back with his Sharingan active, and saw the whole battlefield in a glance. There were zetsu _everywhere_ among the crowd, grabbing any people they could and killing them with just a twist of their rootlike hands around fragile human necks. But everywhere, people were fighting back. Any able-bodied refugee had joined the fray, wielding anything from cudgels to long, wickedly sharp knives, harrying the zetsu and distracting them from the Uchiha with axes.

Madara’s eye was caught on one figure in particular in the middle of the battlefield: Sotan's blonde niece was clinging to the back of one gnarled zetsu and sawing at the thing’s neck with a big serrated dagger, clear droplets of sap suspended in the air from whatever passed for its arteries. Beyond her, the sand-nin’s last walls still before the rim of the eastern side of the canyon, protecting those refugees too afraid or infirm to fight. The bridges had been cut, and those sand-nin with the gift were massing a sand wave to crush those zetsu they could reach.

There was no escape, but there never was when fighting Hashirama’s creatures.

"Team Two, defend Sotan," Izuna shouted from right beside Madara, and grabbed his arm. "Mamiko can't use the catapults; the zetsu are too close to us."

"I figured that out as soon as I saw Sakamae die," Madara snapped. "Stop making obvious statements and start defending the Sand-nin! The only way we're going to survive this is if they can thin the zetsu to a manageable number."

Izuna snarled at him, but let go and darted off to side, lopping the arm off a zetsu about to stab the blonde girl from behind. All around Madara, person by person, team by team, shinobi began to team up against the zetsu as the civilians distracted the creatures—but more and more of them were falling, Sand and Uchiha and refugee alike. Madara killed his first zetsu of the day, and whirled around to face another, sap running down the handle of his axe. Sotan whistled, high and sharp, and when Madara found the other man, he saw five zetsu trying to pull themselves out of a roiling ball of sand slowly compressing them into a pulp.

Madara heard the crack-crack-crack of their wooden joints snapping, and realized a split second later what Sotan wanted him to do. Six handsigns later, and Madara was blowing a massive fireball into the coils of sand, turning it into a glass coffin for the zetsu entombed within. Sotan released the still-hot glass and began sweeping up more zetsu into another hold, but Madara could see the sweat on his face, his open mouth as he panted harshly for air. _He can't do this many more times,_ Madara thought, and he knew that Sotan was the only Sand-nin powerful enough to do this even once. All his kin were just using walls to corral the creatures, but the zetsu were crawling over and digging under them faster than the Uchiha could dismember them. 

_I need to set off the flare for Mamiko_ , Madara thought in despair, and looked for his brother on the battlefield.

And then suddenly, Koji was before him, wearing his shabby kimono and holding his unsheathed sword on guard, blade already wet with the sap of living zetsu. "The wire traps," he shouted, red eyes intent. "Can they be set off from this side?"

Madara just blinked at him for a moment, totally flabbergasted. 

"Answer me!" Koji snapped.

"Yes," Madara shouted in return. "But what are you doing out here? You should be with the other refugees beyond the retaining walls!"

And then—and Madara could not believe _this was happening_ —Koji held out a single demanding hand. "Give me your flare!"

"I'm not giving you anything, you madman," Madara screamed back at him, and then turned to his left to chop the arm off a grasping zetsu.

"Is this really the time to argue with me?" Koji demanded. "Give me your flare, I need it!"

Before Madara could open his mouth again, his brother appeared next to him, replied, "Good enough for me," and slapped his own flare into Koji's outstretched hand.

"Thank you," Koji shouted in response. "Get your clan in position; thirty seconds after impact, I'll need some mass fire." And then he cut his left palm on the blade of his own sword, before reaching forward and slapping the face of the zetsu Madara had just maimed on with his own bloody hand.

"What the hell?" Madara shrieked in disbelief, at his brother or Koji, he didn't know. Koji, at least, couldn't answer. He was already sprinting towards the salt break, and the razor-sharp wires still strung across the eastern zone, pristine and new. But he wasn't going alone—the zetsu were following him, leaving their own battles to chase after him like he was the only person on the battlefield. Sotan crushed a few laggards, and more than a few fell to stray cuts from Uchiha axes, but dozens of them were converging on Koji with an awful ululating cry. Madara, Izuna, and Team 2 were right behind them. Somehow, Sotan's niece, Shigeru, had attached herself to Izuna's back, and was clinging for dear life to his shoulders, her big serrated dagger in a holster on her back.

"Are the zetsu _baying for his blood_?" Shigeru said, amazed. "How is he going to fight them all by himself? Is this a suicide maneuver?"

"I have no idea what is going on," Madara said angrily, axe still clutched in his hands. Izuna was ordering Team Two into a modified arrow foundation, with himself and Madara as the point. Koji was carefully crawling through the wires as quickly as he could. Once he reached the other side, he made the sign of the snake, and the earth all around him shifted—transformed into stone, Madara realised. The first zetsu to reach the wires attempted to dig underneath, only to be stymied by the new material. It cocked its head, almost… _puzzled_. But a split second later, it started pushing through the wires, only to fall to pieces in another instant, dismembered by the force of strung wire. It didn’t matter: another pushed forward, and another, and another... 

"How many zetsu are those traps designed to take down?" Takeichi asked. The only sign of tension in his demeanor were his tightly clenched fists.

Izuna just shook his head as zetsu after zetsu was destroyed by the sprung traps. "Sakamae told me that even without her direction, the traps could take down at least a dozen zetsu. But we never planned on there being such an unprecedented influx."

"Did you ever think they would dig under the salt break, Commander?" someone further down the line asked. "Because that's what really screwed us today."

Madara put the conversation out of his head, still focusing on the fight ahead. Two zetsu stumbling into the last wire triggered the final trap, and were promptly decapitated for their pains. That still left nearly two dozen zetsu crawling through the mass of wire and mangled corpses towards Koji, not that he betrayed the tiniest flicker of unease at the sight. He pulled the string on the flare, pointing it straight above his head, and then, as the red sparks rose high in the sky, took two precise strides forward and began slicing at the tangled zetsu. The zetsu may have been attuned to him in some way, somehow, but they still weren't any smarter—Koji cut down them down in ones and twos, never letting a single one get within arm's reach.

And suddenly, just as Madara heard the peculiar twang of the catapult springs, he understood Koji's plan. As Izuna shouted at everyone to get ready, Madara began making the six-seal pattern for the Great Fireball for the third time that day. Right on cue, the hollow clay projectiles containing the weed killer flew overhead, bursting like bombs when they hit the ground and dowsing everything in the area—except for Koji, who was making the seal for the dog sign in his left hand. 

In the sight of Madara's Sharingan, his chakra coils seemed to pulse intently, and the water surrounding him was slowly funneled into a great wave. He held it for a moment more, before releasing it upon the zetsu, already hissing from the contact burns they'd already received. They shrieked in response, clawing at their own bodies in a frenzy.

"Mark!” Madara roared a final time, and like a well-oiled machine, the arrow formation let loose with a mass fireball upon the zetsu.

And then they exploded. 

"Wow," Shigeru whispered beside him, grotesque body parts raining from the sky. An arm landed next to her, bouncing and rolling to land next to her feet. The fingers of the hand twitched once before falling still. "How can I learn how to do that?"

"Good question," Izuna murmured, _sotto voce_. He turned closer to Madara, as the rest of Takeichi’s team shook off their shock and began cheering. "We need to keep our new friend in custody. I'm almost certain he's Senju Tobirama."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can blame the germ of this idea on [Hiruma_Musouka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiruma_Musouka), who has spent months cheering me on as I laboriously outlined this story and began the even more labor-intensive job of writing it. However, I'm probably to blame too, since the idea of villain!Hashirama is simply too good to pass up. My thanks to both [Hiruma_Musouka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiruma_Musouka) and [crowind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowind/works) for acting as betas for this beast - their work helped make this into a far better story.
> 
> Next chapter: Every battle has an aftermath; this battle has a mystery, as well.


	2. rivers run dry, part two

For a moment, the three of them were absolutely silent and still. Team Two broke up around them, already checking the bodies for survivors at Takeichi's direction. He hardly needed Madara and Izuna's assistance with that. Shigeru was still clinging to Izuna's back, but not for long. She jumped down with a little push off his shoulders, landing on her feet with a cheeky grin before moving into the space between the two brothers.

"So who is Tobirama Senju?" Shigeru asked, still in a whisper. "I had to memorize all the high-ranking Senju before mother sent me here, but I've never heard of him."

Madara didn't answer for a moment, still struck absolutely speechless by the sheer impossibility of what Izuna had said. It was like the tall tales travelers told: the people across the Narrow Sea have sharp teeth and a taste for human flesh; the shinobi of Whirlpool Country can make knives rain down from the sky; Senju Tobirama is still alive, still waiting to depose his brother and retake his home. The trouble was, Izuna didn’t usually believe those stories, but right now, he looked deadly serious, lips pressed into a firm, stubborn line. 

"Well?" Shigeru asked impatiently, pushing more of her golden hair behind her ears. "Aren't you going to answer me?"

"He's a long-dead boy," Madara finally snapped, turning his attention away from her and glaring at his brother. "Just a ghost story the Senju like to harp on about."

Izuna glared right back. "Yes, because all ghost stories have a king's fortune as a bounty if captured _alive_. And honestly, brother—how many albino swordsmen with a mastery of water techniques do you know? I only know the one, myself."

"I think I would know if Senju Tobirama were standing right in front of me," Madara hissed at Izuna, and his brother had the gall to roll his eyes.

"Yeah, because you're so great at recognizing faces," Izuna snapped. "Tell me, how long did it take you to remember Shigeru after her report at the briefing last night? I'm curious if it was more or less than six hours."

At that, Shigeru turned her head towards Madara, another impish smile already tugging at her lips. "Is that why you never greeted me, earlier today? I just thought you were pretending to not know me!"

Madara opened his mouth once more, before abruptly closing it and shaking his head sharply. Shigeru, if possible, looked even more delighted. With that expression on her face, Madara suddenly realized where he’d seen her before: three years ago, she’d boldly stood at her father’s right hand during that first tentative meeting with the sand-nin in north-eastern Wind. She was Reto’s only heir. 

"You actually didn't recognize me," she gasped, her face alight with an almost diabolical amusement. "How is that even possible? You have _magical all-seeing eyes_!"

"Shigeru, this isn't the time," Izuna snapped harshly. "You can tease my brother later, but right now, we need to figure out how to deal with the hero of the hour, preferably in the next two minutes."

Shigeru scowled at Izuna, but obligingly fell silent as Madara peered over at Koji, currently picking his way through the dead zetsu with Takeichi by his side. They were discussing something quite seriously, and Madara didn't even need to re-activate his Sharingan to lip-read the gist of it: Koji needed a zetsu corpse; something was different about them, or something. Madara tried to compare Koji's profile to that of Senju Tobirama's, but Madara's memories of the boy were over a decade old—and besides, Madara had simply never taken much notice of the younger Senju brother.

"Activate your Sharingan," Izuna said urgently, his own eyes intent on the albino swordsman. Madara grit his teeth, but obliged his brother, useless as it was. Unlike Izuna, Madara had never fought the other Senju boy one-on-one, with or without his Sharingan activated. And indeed, things weren't much clearer after that. Koji's chakra coils were still blazing from the use of that tremendous water technique, and Madara could suddenly see, looking at the other man's easy gait, that Koji's balance was on par with the best swordsman he'd ever seen, a vicious old samurai from Iron Country who'd fought his aunt to a standstill at the Battle of Tarawashi Pass, but other than that, nothing.

"Izuna, I'm not seeing anything," Madara said, then held up a hand to halt his brother's protests. "But you're right, albino swordsmen who like to make it rain are not exactly easy to come by. I'll detain and question him once more at quarters. Whatever else is true, he knows far too much about the zetsu and how the weed killer works to be a simple courier. This could be our chance to finally make a—"

"—more permanent connection with the internal anti-Senju resistance," Izuna said, in unison with his brother's voice. He just shrugged when Madara glared at him. "What? You repeat yourself a lot."

Madara huffed at him. "If people listened to me the first time, I wouldn't have to!"

"Oh, not this agai—"

"Master Koji, are you alright?"

And for the second time in the space of ten minutes, Madara was struck totally speechless once again. He and his brother turned in unison to look back towards the canyon, and saw a girl standing near the centipede carcasses. Madara recognized her from earlier in the day as the blindfolded girl Koji had been leading by the hand. She was cupping her hands around her mouth, taking a deep breath, and sure enough—

"Master Koji, do you need our help? We’re all ready to go!"

"What the _hell_ ," Shigeru blurted out. "Kichibei hasn't pulled the protective walls down, so how did she get out here? How did any of them get out here?"

And indeed, Madara could see the other children wandering around the canyon rim, halting every so often to pick something up. More than a few of them were dragging something heavy to the holding area, piling up more and more—

"Are they gathering zetsu bodies?" Madara asked in disbelief, and his brother made a strangled sound of rage.

"Those children are not simple _orphans_ ," Izuna hissed. 

"I'm fine, Ying," Koji replied, projecting his voice across the battlefield like an experienced commander. Madara glanced back at him, Sharingan still activated, and was struck by his stance: shoulders straight, chin tipped up and slightly to the side, the blade of his sword resting on his shoulder. Another image was superimposed on top of him: the same figure, but shorter, and slighter, and wearing the armor of the Senju clan when Butsuma led that clan. It was the exact same stance, from some battle long ago. "Go ahead, keep gathering the zetsu, I'll be with you shortly."

"Shigeru," Madara said, and waited a moment while the girl stood at attention. "Please go supervise the children, find out why they're gathering the zetsu in one place. Make sure they don't wander off—put eyes on them if you can."

Shigeru saluted, suddenly every inch the professional soldier, and started trotting back towards the group of orphans. Madara sighed heavily, before walking across the broken ground of the salt break, Izuna falling a half-step behind. Takeichi had already gathered the bodies of their dead to one side, and was currently staring at the zetsu parts strewn across the bare field, a distinct look of consternation on his face. Tobirama was still speaking to him, pointing at the zetsu bodies insistently. Izuna elbowed Madara in the ribs, hard, before jerking his chin towards them.

"Find out what's wrong," Izuna ordered in a hoarse whisper, wincing as he spoke. "I'm going to get a detail to carry our casualties across the canyon, and then get Team Three and what's left of Team One to get these refugees across as soon as possible—I want to be on the other side of the canyon when it starts raining. Amaterasu only knows what will creep from the forest then."

Madara watched for a moment as his brother began walking towards the canyon rim. _He looks fine,_ Madara reassured himself. _Not even a scratch on him. A sore throat is nothing_.

"Lord Madara," Takeichi called from across the field. "Might I have a moment of your time?"

Madara raised one hand in response, before trudging across the barren field.

* * *

By the time Madara had reached the other man, the rest of Team Two had gathered the zetsu pieces into another great pile. The smell was indescribable. Something between burnt wood and the chemical scent of accelerant, with the faintest touch of shit. It was, without a doubt, nauseating, and Madara took a moment to be glad he usually never had to stick around for _this_ part of border duty. Tobirama was at the center of it all, directing Team Two and arranging the zetsu corpses into some kind of arcane figure only he knew the purpose of. Madara raised one eyebrow when he looked at Takeichi, but the other man just shrugged.

"Master Koji has an idea of how to handle all the zetsu before it rains,” Takeichi said casually. "Usually I would just shove them in a pile and incinerate them with a mass fire jutsu, but there's far too many of them to get through before it rains—not without killing everyone with chakra exhaustion, anyway. But we can't just leave them as they are, because within a short time—"

"—they'll sprout," Madara said, frowning fiercely. 

"Exactly!" Takeichi exclaimed. "But there's a work-around: the zetsu really are just like firewood. At this point, they're like green wood, full of water. If we dry them out, they'll catch far easier, and we'll be able to incinerate them with less chakra. Now, ordinarily, seasoning new wood takes at least a year..."

"...but somehow I expect you have a work-around for that problem. Otherwise, you would look a lot unhappier," Madara said wryly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Apparently, Master Koji has some kind of jutsu to rip the water out of the husks. He says he's only done this on one or two at a time, but well… it's better than nothing," Takeichi said, spreading his hands wide.

Madara nodded slowly in response. "Not a bad plan. If worst comes to worst, I suppose we can toss the zetsu bodies just inside the border of the Forest, but I like this idea better. I'm going to speak to Master Koji. If you need more men, recruit them from what's left of Team Two. We need to work quickly, because I don't think the rain will wait any longer."

Takeichi didn't bother to salute—he'd always been less-than-respectful of the boys he'd tutored in the physical arts all those years ago—before jogging across the field to speak to his second-in-command. Madara himself just started trudging towards Tobirama. The other man was still arranging the zetsu bodies as Team Two brought more and more dismembered pieces over to them. Twenty paces away, and Madara was already rethinking his cunning plan: Tobirama was rather isolated in his current position, but he was isolated because the smell was completely horrific. Madara didn't have much of a gag reflex— most ninja didn't—but even recoiled from walking closer to the other man. How could anyone work through this without stopping to vomit every so often?

By the time he was five paces away, Madara was sincerely wishing he didn't have a nose or a tongue. "You!" he half-shouted accusingly—and then had to pause as he started coughing from breathing in the acrid miasma. When he looked back up, eyes watering, Tobirama had paused in his work and was looking at Madara curiously. Madara just pointed an accusing finger at him, and the curiosity transformed, first to realization, then… nothing. Tobirama’s face was as clear as a calm summer day, only a little tension around his eyes betraying his thoughts.

"Later," Tobirama said tightly. "You can interrogate me all you like afterwards, but for now, we need to focus on the zetsu clean-up."

Madara, midway through opening his mouth once again, slowly closed it before nodding once. Tobirama observed him a moment more. Once it became clear that Madara wasn't planning to say anything, he turned back to his grisly work. Madara observed him for a moment longer, breathing shallowly through his mouth, and realized that Tobirama was stacking the zetsu exactly like wood left to dry for a season. Madara remember doing the exact same thing with his brothers and cousins as a boy, using the exact same pattern. 

With an internal sigh, Madara began assisting him, grabbing one relatively whole zetsu under the arms, and laying it out in the pattern Madara remembered setting as a boy. He tried not to grimace as the sap from the zetsu’s broken body spilled over his gloved hands, already turning to the next piece of zetsu Team Two had brought in. 

If Tobirama sent him a surprised glance, Madara pretended not to notice. Together, the work went quickly, especially as Takeichi found more people to assist with the work. Within a half-hour, the ruined salt break had been totally cleared of zetsu. Now all that was left to do was see if Tobirama's technique would work on a large scale.

 

"All right, Master Koji—how do you think we should do this?" Takeichi asked, surveying the stacked zetsu. Tobirama didn't skip a beat in providing an explanation.

"Set your four strongest fire-breathers at each point, with everyone else evenly divided between them. I don't know how long it will take me to pull the water out of the zetsu, but you're familiar with the texture wood has when it's most flammable, correct?" He paused for a moment as the gathered Uchiha nodded. "When the wood reaches that point, start burning together, and then stop once it catches. It should burn quickly from that point—I've found the zetsu bodies burn even better than wood once they're dry, although I still haven't ascertained the reason."

Once everyone confirmed the plan, Takeichi began assigning positions, leaving the east point to Madara and taking the west point for himself. Tobirama stayed by Madara's side, still evaluating the stack of twenty-six-and-a-half (not counting the spare hand or foot) zetsu carefully. The other half hadn’t been found. With any luck, it had landed somewhere inside the Forest, although Takeichi’s crew would sweep the killing grounds again just to be sure. 

"Do you really think you can pull the water out of all those zetsu?" Madara asked skeptically. It was true that Tobirama appeared to be fairly good at water techniques, but this was a lot of water to pull out of a lot of bodies.

"We'll find out in a minute," Tobirama muttered back, before beginning to shape the signs of his jutsu. _Dog–Tiger–Horse–Dragon–Horse–Boar–Dog_. A simple jutsu—or one Tobirama knew so well he didn't need many hand signs. Madara didn't bother to activate his Sharingan—he would need all his chakra to burn the zetsu—but as some kind of water began beading up out of the zetsu bodies and streaming through the air towards the pitted minefield, he didn't need it. The amount of both power and control it took to rip the water out of so many separate objects...

It was stupendous.

Before his very eyes, the zetsu began weathering and shrinking, turning from their usual white color to a dull brown. As soon as Madara saw cracks forming, he acted, and all around him his kinsmen did the same. A dozen tongues of fire leapt out at the stack from all sides. For a moment, nothing to seemed to happen, and then all at once, the zetsu caught. Tobirama was right—they burned far quicker than normal wood. One by one, the Uchiha let the jutsu drop, until only Madara remained in position. Once he was satisfied all of it was burning, even the zetsu on the bottom of the stack, he released the jutsu as well. At his side, Tobirama panted harshly, swaying on his feet. One hand pinched the bridge of his nose, and he closed his eyes for a moment, resting. Then the hand dropped back to the hilt of his sheathed sword, and his eyes reopened, fresh determination shining from within.

Madara eyed him sidelong anyway. "Will you be capable of handling the next one?"

Tobirama gave him a truly evil glare. "I'll have help," he said shortly, and started walking to the holding area, waving off any offers of assistance from the rest of Team Two. 

Madara followed him across the salt break, Takeichi and the others pulled in his wake. As they passed the centipede bodies, four members of Team Two broke off, presumably to start the grisly process of cutting the bodies into pieces and dragging them out of the kill zone. One of them started pulling the harpoons out of the body, grunting as she tugged them out.

“Are they going to be able to drag them out of the way and reactivate the mine field before the end of the day?” Madara murmured to Takeichi’s second-in-command. Her name was Michiyo, or something like that; no Sharingan, but a fire-breather with larger-than-average chakra reserves.

The woman shrugged, one eye swollen shut. “Should be. Once they’re in pieces, Sotan usually sends one of his crew over to carry them over the cliff. We’ll just put caltrops down until we can install new mines. Not sure what we’re going to do about the salt break, though. Usually we’d just char the ground and mix in some new salt, but it looks like the zetsu have found a way around it, haven’t they?” 

Madara couldn’t say anything in return.

When they got to the holding area, Shigeru was ordering the orphans around like a small queen. It was not unexpected. Now that he recognized her, he remembered the girl had always been remarkably self-assured, even imperious, whenever Madara had the pleasure of eating at her mother's table. The orphans had gathered all the bodies in one place, but hadn't bothered to stack them for burning. Madara supposed it didn't matter so much—there were only eleven bodies in the pile, plus more of the assorted arms and legs. As the children dumped off their last pieces of carcass, they all moved towards Tobirama, who was crouched down and speaking to the blindfolded girl. 

_...done well. Do you think you're up to doing a little more?_ he asked. Madara couldn't see the other girl's lips, but he didn't need too—she was nodding quite emphatically. Tobirama smiled at her, then stood up, using the girl's shoulder as a brace. 

"Lord Madara, I sent most of the others to assist Team One—I think you, me, and Kimitada's boys will be enough to get rid of this group," Takeichi said from behind, and Madara grunted in agreement.

"Have you seen Izuna?" Madara asked anxiously.

"Yeah, he's fine. He was managing triage last time I checked, up near Itsuki’s checkpoint. Not as many as usual, given the way the battle looked to be going," Takeichi replied, already pointing the two boys he'd retained to opposite sides of the pile before starting to move towards Tobirama.

"No," Madara exclaims, grabbing the other man's shoulder. "I'll take that position. You take this corner, instead. Anyway, you were saying about the casualties?"

Takeichi gave him an unsettled look, but shrugged nonchalantly. "Yeah, I’ll be damned if I understand it, but the zetsu didn’t see those civilians coming. Our guys managed to get in a lot of killing blows while the bastards were trying to figure out what do about the maniacs attacking them with sticks."

Madara nodded shortly at the information, then walked over to Tobirama and the blindfolded girl. He didn’t understand that, but it was probably important. Everything involving the zetsu always was. Somewhat past Tobirama, Shigeru was forming the other children into single file, apparently in preparation for crossing Bridge Two. None of them looked very happy, but they were obeying her—save for one young boy who tried to run over to Tobirama, only to stop short once Shigeru grabbed his collar. 

"They're fond of you," Madara said as he stood next to the albino. “The orphans. Did they really have another caretaker, or was that just a story?”

For an instant, Tobirama seemed taken aback—but only for an instant. He shrugged one shoulder casually before speaking. "I'm familiar," he said dismissively. 

The blindfolded girl on his other side just laughed merrily, covering her mouth with her hands. Now that Madara was paying attention, he noted that her shirt and pants were threadbare, but reasonably clean given her flight through the Forest, and her frame seemed relatively well-fed. All the other orphans looked similar: not wealthy, to be sure, but hardly starving. Not bad for children with no parents and no clan to care for them. 

"What do you need me to do, Master Koji?" she asked eagerly. 

"Do you remember the water-pull technique I taught you last time I was in Kurashiki?" Tobirama questioned.

"Yes, of course I do," the girl replied, a rather arch tone in her voice.

"Good. Then we'll do it together. Focus your will on the zetsu, and go slowly—this doesn't need to be done in an instant," he lectured, and in a moment, the two started. _Dog–Tiger–Horse–Boar–Horse–Dragon–Horse–Tiger–Boar–Dog–Hare._ The jutsu was far longer this time, and even without the Sharingan activated, Madara could feel the movement of chakra within Tobirama moving more slowly. It was totally unconcealed and obvious.

As before, water beaded up on the zetsu’s bark before flowing away. Tobirama was guiding it to the ground behind him, and Madara looked up at the clouded sky through the clear arc of water for just a second before refocusing on the zetsu bodies. As before, the gathered Uchiha torched the zetsu as soon as the surface started cracking, and as before, the zetsu caught fire cleanly. Madara could hear a series of deep cracks within the fire—sap, he realized. Sap exploding from the heat.

At his side, Tobirama swayed before stabilizing again, although it was a near thing. The little blindfolded girl wasn’t as hardy: she dropped like a stone, and the exhausted swordsman barely caught her in his arms before she cracked her skull on the ground. There was a long moment where Madara thought the other man would fold as well, but Tobirama just took a deep breath and stood up, the girl cradled in his arms. 

"That's it," he said, and it took a second for Madara to realize Tobirama was speaking to him. "We're done here."

* * *

Tobirama dismissed Madara's aborted offer of assistance with nothing but a shake of the head, and started walking to the bridges, still holding the young girl. Madara followed, shooting Takeichi a glance to ensure he had the rest of the mop-up in hand before lengthening his stride to catch up to the other man. Looking at the back of Tobirama's head, still held stubbornly straight, Madara admitted he probably shouldn't have expected any different. More and more, little events from years past were rising to the top of Madara's brain, regarding the old war between the Senju and the Uchiha. 

Madara had never fought him one-on-one, but those of his clansmen who had crossed blades with him had found the younger Senju brother a particularly tricky opponent, both very fast and extremely powerful. Izuna, in particular, had been driven to extreme frustration—the Sharingan gave him no more than the barest edge over the other boy, and more often than not, he would lose in a protracted fight, only keeping his head because Madara or one of their kinsmen would intervene at the last possible moment. There was a whole six months when Izuna had trained in nothing but the sword with their aunt, just in preparation for the next battle. But then Butsuma had died, and Tobirama had supposedly fled, and the chance of Izuna ever defeating him in battle became nothing.

Observing him now, Madara could appreciate that however Senju Tobirama had survived the last decade, he had not appreciably changed from the stoic, calculating figure Madara remembered seeing out of the corner of one eye. He'd only grown taller, and broader, and shaved his head... and apparently taken up insurrection as a lifestyle.

"Stop it," the man himself said tersely. 

"Stop what?" Madara inquired mildly, still a step behind.

"Stop staring at me," Tobirama demanded. "It's drawing attention."

Madara snorted. "I'm sorry, I'm not the one who just blew up _over two dozen zetsu_ at once. You saved the camp—people are going to stare at you until you leave."

There was a very faint sigh of exasperation from ahead—very faint. In light of the years of complaining and whining Madara had suffered through from brothers and cousins and kin of all kind, it was a very satisfying sound to hear. Madara was half-tempted to poke at the other man once again, just to hear that exasperated sigh once more, but unfortunately, there was no time. They had reached their destination. 

Itsuki waved them to the front of the line, ignoring the protests and complaints with a long-suffering air.

“Izuna?” Madara questioned before the girl could get a word in edgewise. 

“He’s fine. He already crossed with everyone who isn’t dead yet,” Itsuki replied, rolling her eyes. “He’s skiving off work because he can’t talk, lucky bastard. Almost as lucky as our quiet friends on the ground over there.” 

The crowd of refugees still left to cross shifted uneasily, dead silent. Several still bodies were lying in a row in the holding area, the ground around them liberally splashed with blood. Itsuki didn’t pay it any mind, but then again, she wouldn’t. Such scenes were so common as to be unremarkable to her. Even by the standards of the Uchiha, her childhood had been marked by violence and privation and terrible, terrible want. 

"Lord Madara, please brush out your hair before you cross," she said bluntly, holding out a hairbrush insistently. Once he took it from her hand, she turned to Tobirama and gestured from him to turn around once, looking closely at him and the child in his arms with the full strength of her Sharingan.

"You and the girl are clear to cross. There is a group across the canyon waiting to be taken to our waystation; please wait with—"

"That won't be necessary, Itsuki," Madara interrupting, wrestling with a lock of hair that had gotten sticky zetsu sap in it. "I'll be escorting him to the watchtower for debriefing."

Itsuki nodded twice, then held out her hand. "All right. Please give that brush back to me now. Do you really need such long hair?"

Madara scowled at her, and she scowled right back. "Why you can't keep your hair a more decent length, I'll never know," she complained. "If you didn't outrank me, I'd make you cut it."

"How lucky for me that I do outrank you," he sneered at her, thrusting the brush back into her hand. "Do you have to bring it up _every time_ I see you?"

"Yes," Itsuki said, totally unrepentant. "Now please cross the bridge, you're holding up the line."

"A moment, please—you said there is a waystation for refugees? Has the rest of my party been taken there?" Tobirama asked politely. 

Itsuki shook her head. "No, Shigeru took them across," Itsuki said, before turning halfway back to Madara with raised eyebrows. "She mentioned something about putting them up in the command shack?"

Madara shrugged, in no mood to satisfy Itsuki’s curiosity in front of the crowd. Instead he directed Tobirama, still holding the girl in his arms, to cross first. Tobirama just looked at him for a moment from beneath his pale eyelashes, a skeptical look in his red eyes, then started walking, only to be stopped by Itsuki's gloved hand on his shoulder. 

"Master Koji," she said, solemn and utterly sincere. "Thank you for your assistance today. It was greatly appreciated."

Tobirama nodded, face set into understanding lines, and Itsuki withdrew her hands, already focused on the next group of refugees. A woman behind them was already complaining about Madara’s hair remaining unshorn—talking about how it was unfair, of all things to whine about?

Itsuki’s cutting voice disabused her, and any of the other refugees, of any notion of _fairness_ when crossing the border.

The “bridge” was just a narrow path of magnetized sand, just wide enough for one person to cross at a time. Madara kept an eye on Tobirama; if he fell, Madara would have to catch him before he splattered his brains out on the canyon floor. It had happened before—enough times that the Uchiha usually warned people to get on their hands and knees if they felt dizzy. Umeka, two camps north, had a hilarious story about the time an old man just stopped on the path, frozen with fear, and wouldn’t move one way or another, blocking anyone from crossing for a good two hours. They’d had to waste most of an afternoon trying to coax him down, to no avail, only to finally give in and carry the man off against his will.

"How are these bridges made?" Tobirama asked when they were halfway across, and Madara resisted the urge to twitch in surprise. Not many people spoke during the crossing—something about a walk on a thin pathway of sand across a very deep canyon seemed to focus the mind entirely on the trip ahead. "Some sort of earth-related bloodline limit, but I don't understand the adhesive force involved—it's not water or earth."

Madara felt his eyebrows raise almost despite himself. "Magnetism," he said. "Apparently not an uncommon trait in areas dominated by earth and wind."

Tobirama hummed thoughtfully, still walking at a steady pace across the bridge, but didn't say anything more until they arrived at the other side of the canyon. Madara wordlessly gestured towards the watchtower, and together they walked towards the entrance. Mamiko and her crew were going over the catapults nearby, but she straightened to attention when Madara came into view. 

"Lord Madara," she said, eyes rapidly flickering between the men approaching. "Commander Izuna is inside the briefing room with an asset, waiting for you."

"Thank you, Mamiko," Madara responded, and waited for Tobirama to walk ahead. He paused as a sudden thought struck him. "Mamiko, do you have a spare bedroll stashed somewhere around here?"

"Under the stairs, sir," Mamiko answered, a little puzzled. She nodded when Madara pulled it out from underneath. "Yes, that's the one."

"Good. I'm going to borrow it for the meeting," Madara said, a little brusquely, and carried it under his arm into the main room, closing the door behind him. 

As expected, Izuna was inside with Samsi, the merchant who had accompanied Tobirama from Kurashiki. She was currently dressed in loose pants and a drab traveling coat that had seen far better days, but she wore it as though they were the finest robes. Not that his brother was paying any attention to her now, not with his old rival in the room. His brother was glaring daggers at Tobirama, and Tobirama was ignoring him in turn. Samsi was just smirking as she watched the one-sided face-off, and as Madara walked in, she caught his black eyes with her own green ones, and winked at him saucily. Madara didn't bother to respond. He just walked over to the small, precious camp stove, and laid out the bedroll in front of it before turning back to the swordsman.

"You might as well lay her down here," Madara said in a brusque manner. "You don't need to carry her while we're questioning you."

Tobirama murmured his thanks and brought the girl over to the bedroll and tucked her in, gently brushing her short brown hair away from her face. He then walked over to the main table and leaned against it. 

"I'm sure you have questions," he said, nearly emotionless once again. "Ask."

Izuna blinked, but then looked at Madara and glared, before clutching his throat pointedly. _That's right, his voice is gone_ , Madara realized. He looked at Tobirama once again, but before he could even open his mouth, the door banged open once again. Silhouetted against the light in the doorway was Sotan, panting harshly. He'd taken his hood off sometime since Madara had seen him last, and his blonde hair was dark with sweat. His face paint was smeared all along the right side of his face, as was a little blood.

"Is it true?" He asked breathlessly. "Are you the Alchemist?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Tobirama speaks and Madara tries to listen - if only Izuna would let him. Also featuring 100% more sand-nin!


	3. rivers run dry, part three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter the third, in which Tobirama speaks, yet somehow says very little, and Madara tries to figure what to do when you've accidentally caught a fugitive from a law you emphatically don't recognize.

"Well, answer the question!" Sotan demanded, fists clenched at his side. "Are you or are you not the Alchemist?"

Tobirama only raised one white eyebrow before nodding imperiously in response. 

Tobirama's affirmation seemed to wind Sotan up more than anything else. The other man raked his hands through his short hair before turning and pacing in the middle of the room—five steps towards the map table, five steps away, back and forth again and again as he muttered unintelligibly to himself. Madara took a step towards him, concerned, but before he could reach out his hand, Sotan spun around and faced Tobirama once more, clearly having come to some sort of decision during his little fit.

"What will you need to restart production of weed killer once again?" the sand-nin asked sharply. "Location, materiels, workers—what's the bare minimum necessary?"

Tobirama's red eyes evaluated Sotan for a spare moment, before tipping his head towards the sole woman in the room. "Samsi handles that side of our operation. I do the research, she gets the formulas into production. She knows our requirements best."

Izuna made a choking sound as he turned his head and stared at the woman beside him; Samsi smiled at him with just a touch of condescension in her manner. She propped her chin on her open right palm and waited patiently. 

"Ideally, a property near the glassmaker's district in Lanshi. As you saw earlier, many of the products we test are...explosive when they come into contact with reactive metals. Glass is always—"

"I thought that was a new technique, not an inherent property of the substance itself," Madara interrupted. "I've never see weed killer react that way before."

Samsi didn't bother to answer, only favored him with an irritated look before looking at Sotan expectantly. He was looking at Samsi with the sort of expression Madara only saw on really put-upon camels.

"You want property in the heart of Lanshi," he said in a strangled voice. "When was the last time you _visited_ Lanshi? You need a special dispensation from the works commission to even think about building there, and getting one is impossible—"

"Ah, but you are a lowly bandit, and I am a respected, respectable merchant," Samsi said, green eyes alight with laughter as she beckoned languidly with her left hand for Sotan to move closer to her. The sand-nin walked over and leaned against the table, exhaustion in every line of his body, yet he still listened intently to the merchant's words. Izuna was shaking his head and pouring another cup of water from a pitcher left on the table.

"It's in the warning labels given out with every shipment," Tobirama stated in a low tone. Madara looked back at him in surprise; the other man had moved a little closer to him. "It's always been explosive in contact with metal, which is why we use ceramic jars as a container. The effect is...sporadic. I don't think the liquid itself becomes explosive, but I don't have the tools to really understand what is happening when it comes into contact with reactive metal, only that it happens."

"But you have a hypothesis," Madara said, almost certain.

Tobirama looked at Madara sidelong before nodding stiffly. "I suspect the weed killer evaporates when it comes into contact with the metal, and that evaporated gas is the explosive agent. At least, the water feels lighter whenever we tested it."

"Why haven't you weaponized it?" Madara demanded. "Every edge helps, you _know_ that—"

"You are not the only anti-Leaf forces I supply," Tobirama replied, quietly furiously. He took another step closer to Madara, the line of his shoulders raised and stiff. This close, Madara could see what looked like old scars on Tobirama's face—a clean, sharp line cut down his chin and angled across each cheekbone. They'd healed a long, long time ago. "And many of them—most of them—do not have your clan's inherent ability with fire. The area effect needs further testing before I make any recommendations, and in the meantime, I do not have the time or the ability to hand-tailor my tools for everyone who uses them. I have my hands full just making new formulations that work against every new generation of zetsu—or haven't you noticed how they've changed?"

Madara's lips tightened. "The salt break doesn't work on them anymore."

"They're specializing, as far as I can see," Tobirama whispered harshly. "Each generation becomes more and more fit for its surroundings—the ones on the eastern coast are beginning to look like mangrove trees, while the ones here are more reminiscent of white pine. It's getting more and more difficult for one formula to kill all the different varieties."

"Well, I've often heard that many hands make quick work: you could have changed that at any time," Madara snapped harshly. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Izuna was already turning towards him, a calculating look on his face. The Wind country natives were paying them no mind, too busy discussing Samsi's requirements for production. "I've been trying to make more than cursory contact with your group for years now, and I've always been rebuffed!"

"Because you are an Uchiha, and allying with you against my family was political poison!" Tobirama snarled back. 

"You are just as close-minded and intemperate as I recall," Madara hissed spitefully. "Is that why your brother cast you out?"

"You say that as if you know anything at all, but you know _nothing_ ," Tobirama growled dangerously, and his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. There was a split-second where even without his Sharingan activated, Madara could see his balance ever so slightly shift onto his left foot. It was in preparation for a lunge, Madara was sure of it, and he clenched his fists in preparation for a backhand parry, thanking every god that he knew that he hadn't yet taken his gauntlets off for the day.

And then Izuna stepped in between the two of them, arms raised in a placating gesture.

"I think, perhaps, that everyone is a little over-tired from the day we've all had," his younger brother said, voice grating horribly as he spoke. Madara could see a not-very-small, not-very-hidden part of his brother was shriveling up from the horror of being polite to a _Senju_ —but at least he was keeping a level head about the whole thing, which was more than Madara himself could do right now. "Master Koji, why don't I take you to get some food; you must be hungry from the journey."

"...that sounds fine. We should bring some back for Samsi," Tobirama murmured with a long pause, red eyes reluctantly sliding from a fixed point on Madara's torso to Izuna's face. "She's not a shinobi, and it was a hard journey coming here."

"Yes, that sounds fine," Izuna rasped, only to stop as Tobirama held up a hand.

"Please stop talking," the other man said in a monotone. "Just—show me the way. Silently."

Izuna smiled tightly at the other man, before gesturing towards the door, mouthing 'after you' in an exaggerated manner. Before he followed Tobirama out, Izuna looked back at Madara and raised both eyebrows, flicking his fingers in the dismissive gesture their mother always used when she wanted them to get back to work. Madara narrowed his eyes at him; what was Izuna playing at? Madara barely repressed the urge to sigh as his brother closed the door behind him, but Mamiko, at least, was outside, and she would be watchful. 

When Madara turned back towards the map table, he found both Sotan and Samsi staring at him with decidedly unimpressed demeanors.

"What the hell was that about, Madara?" Sotan asked. "Because to me, it looked as though you were picking a fight with someone we've been trying to make an alliance with for the last two years."

Madara _did_ sigh at this point, irritably raking his hair off his face. "Personal differences."

"Oh, so it doesn't have anything to do with the fact that he's some kind of Senju outcast, does it?" Sotan said flatly. "Because I swear upon Shukaku's tail, if you've fucked this up because you're an idiot, I'll finish what I started back in the grasslands, and kick your ass for real this time."

"As if you could," Madara snapped, stalking over to the table and glaring at both Sotan and Samsi equally. "And how do you know he's a Senju? Shigeru had never heard of him."

Sotan rolled his eyes. "Shigeru is _twelve_. She's hardly going to remember a minor figure from a decade-old Senju massacre, especially one pretty much everyone is convinced is dead. The only reason I remember him is because your brother is a talkative drunk, and the idea that the bogeyman in the Senju Clan's closet is real is just too good to pass up."

"I would hardly call Tobirama Senju's role in the Hyuuga Purge _minor_ ," Madara said tautly. Samsi sighed heavily, and Madara turned his head to look at her, lips thinning at her carefully neutral expression. 

"Tobirama the man is very different from Tobirama the legend," the merchant observed laconically. "The Senju may really believe Tobirama was with the Hyuuga the night Hashirama attacked, but no one else does. He's just a convenient excuse whenever Hashirama wants more territory and can't provoke a suitable response. _Oh, you're harboring my treasonous brother! Turn him over, or be destroyed._ And of course, his targets are destroyed, because Tobirama was never there to begin with. Not that _some people_ haven't tried to find an adequate replacement: there aren't many albino men left inside Leaf's territory these days."

There was a deep well of bitterness in her voice as she finished speaking, and Madara and Sotan exchanged an uncomfortable glance before wordlessly deciding to change the subject.

"I am curious, though: why did he say allying with the Uchiha was political poison?" Sotan asked, absentmindedly scratching at the flaking paint smeared over his face. "Madara is pretty crazy, but he's been the only person talking about the Senju menace for nearly a decade. Why go at it alone? Why not link up with him?"

"It's a classic example of the boy who cried wolf," Samsi said, leaning over the table to grab the pitcher of water Izuna had left behind. "Oh, the new young Head of the Uchiha Clan says the new leader of the Senju Clan is a horrible person who wants to conquer the world? Goodness, what a change from his father, and his grandfather, and countless Uchiha heads before him. People were just lining up to join you, weren't they?"

"But he was right," Sotan said firmly. "The Senju _are_ horrible people who want to conquer the world."

"We know that now," Samsi said, pouring water into her cup. "But ten years ago, even five years ago, it was the same old sad tale from the Uchiha, and allying with you would be just another partisan act. The Alchemist needed neutrality, because we needed to reach the largest amount of allies possible, and for the last few years, our strategy has worked well."

Madara laughed derisively, unable to stop himself. " _Worked well_? Are you joking? Hashirama has conquered the entire Land of Fire! How does that count as working well?"

Samsi sipped her water quietly for a moment, not a single emotion visible on her face. The pause after Madara's outburst stretched out longer and longer, and Madara noted the frigid, almost menacing air emanating from the woman. It almost felt like—

"You're right—our efforts have only stymied Hashirama's advance, not stopped it entirely. But unlike _you_ , we've cultivated a large network, and when we ally with you, we bring them into the fold with us," Samsi finally responded, sounding as mild as milk. Madara didn't trust her at all. What kind of civilian could give off a feeling of killer intent? "In ten years, you were only able to convince the sand dervishes to join you."

"Hey—" Sotan said, a little irritated at the slight to his family.

"Be silent, you fool, it's hardly an insult when it's the truth," Samsi said insouciantly. "But now _everything_ has changed. Hashirama has conquered an entire country, and Madara—well, Madara looks quite prescient and far-sighted, these days. Not a raving lunatic at all. The Alchemist doesn't need to be neutral anymore, because there's no such thing as neutrality when facing the Senju: either you're with them, or you're against them. And it's better to be against him _together_ , because otherwise he'll squash each of us like a piece of overripe fruit, just as he did to every independent city and clan in what used to be the Land of Fire."

"And you think your allies will be more receptive to my messages now?" Madara asked disbelievingly.

"We've been creating the only reliable weapon against the Forest and distributing it under cost," she said. "Of course they will, if we're the ones asking. But you require proof, don't you?"

Madara nodded stiffly.

"You've been having difficulties with the Council of Caravans," she said knowingly. It wasn't a question. "Tobirama and I can change that."

Finally, Madara pulled up a chair and sat down across from the blonde woman, his eyes never moving from Samsi's face.

"I'm listening," he said, dead serious. At his side, Sotan buried his face in his hands and let out a despairing moan.

"Shukaku's claws, Reto is going to _kill me_ , and my sister will help him do it."

* * *

It turned out that Samsi's menacing aura was more suited to her than Madara would have believed of a mere civilian. As she outlined her plan to force the Council of Caravans to finally—finally!—accept greater expenditures in the pursuit of re-opening the northern route and protecting the road through the Western Desert, Madara came to realize quite quickly that Samsi's ruthlessness rivaled that of any born-and-bred shinobi he'd ever met, and then some. After she finished speaking, he looked to Sotan with disbelief, only to realize the other man was nodding his head thoughtfully. If Madara ever required further proof that desert dwellers were crazy, he had two perfect examples sitting right in front of him. 

"You're joking," he said flatly. "You want me to tell the Council of Caravans if they don't fund us more thoroughly, we'll leave the Canyonlands and flee across the desert? That's absolutely ridiculous!"

Samsi just looked at him with a rather disappointed expression on her face, before turning to Sotan and asking, "Is he always this dim, or is this a special occasion? I would have thought one of the so-called masters of illusion would find this a far more satisfactory plan than begging from a position of weakness."

Sotan, the traitorous bastard, just shrugged in response. "I think the Sharingan is a bit of a crutch," he said thoughtfully. "At least, none of the Uchiha who haven't activated the Sharingan can cast an illusion worth spit. Lying just isn't part of their repertoire."

Samsi just sighed a bit before turning back to Madara. "Very well, I'll explain in more depth. Perhaps it will be more clear after further instruction."

Madara bit his tongue, lest he say something absolutely unforgivable about worthless, grasping middlemen. He'd spent nearly two years working on the Council of Caravans to no avail. If this strange, supercilious merchant had a better way of dealing with them, he'd pay attention even if it killed him.

"Lanshi's Council of Caravans is much like a mule," Samsi lectured. "They're stubborn as hell, hate to be led, and frankly, they really despise most shinobi. When I was a girl, the Sandstorm That Never Slept still raided with impunity in the Western Desert, and I still don't know how Reto of the Red Plateau managed to subdue the bastard, let alone convince the caravan masters that his tribe could be trusted to safely escort the caravans across the desert to the west, instead of stealing them blind along the way." 

She paused for a moment to look at Sotan expectantly, only to turn back to Madara in a huff when the other man refused to say a word in response.

"No explanation? What a shame," she said peevishly, idly pushing some loose tendrils of hair behind her ears. "But ever since then, the Council and the Clans have had constant arguments about the price for missions. The caravan masters are willing to pay for protection, but many of them still think it's only a half-step up from base extortion: pay us to protect you, or wake up one morning to find your wagons alight, the throats of your livestock slit, and every valuable good gone or ruined out of spite. We cannot appeal to their sense of goodwill to shinobi, for they have none."

"I _know_ all this already," Madara snapped. "So how the hell is the Alchemist going to help me change that?"

"Are you familiar with the carrot and the stick?" Samsi asked. "Mules and merchants alike are exquisitely sensitive to incentives. In this case, you will provide the stick, and we'll provide the carrot. You'll go to Lanshi and start kicking up a fuss with the Council—you have ample reason to, given that Kurashiki has fallen and you and yours need to control a 500-mile border with laughably little resources. Tell them if you don't get more money or material, you'll pack up and leave, cross the Western desert for Tenjiku."

"Reto might be willing to play along," Sotan said thoughtfully. "My sister tells me the caravan masters have been shorting us on the fees lately."

"Even better!" Samsi said, delighted. "There's nothing like a legitimate grievance to force the issue. In the meantime, I'll be whispering in the ears of selected family friends, talking about the new wealth to be found on the old northern routes: the mines of the badlands, the foundries in that miserable pesthole of a city where it never stops raining, fine linen cloth from the old grasslands settlements—all of these are places to search for new business, now the borders of Fire are closed to us. And all are places currently unfriendly to Senju Hashirama."

"And how will that help us?" Madara asked, still skeptical. 

"The Council of Caravans is not populated by idiots, Madara, no matter your poor opinion of non-shinobi," Sotan interrupted irritably. "If we leave, Senju forces will roll right over them; if they ally with the other Western cities, and support the Alchemist and us, they might be able to survive and still make a living."

"Instead of facing either ignominious escape or a most final death," Samsi said, finishing his statement. "They just need someone to present the options as realistically as possible."

"And why would they listen to you? How do you even know all this, anyway?" Madara said. Sotan was dead silent, no smart remarks at the ready for only the second time since Madara had first met him, and in front of him, Samsi smiled languidly, eyes blazing fiercely underneath her half-closed eyelids. Madara knew it was meant to be appealing, but instead, it was absolutely bloodcurdling.

"Before I left my father's house to marry the heir of the Komatsuzaki Mining Combine in Kurashiki, I was Kaniska's third daughter," she said with immense satisfaction, and watched with great interest as Madara's face began flushing a deep, dark red.

"Kaniska?" Madara said, voice betraying nothing. "Yagbu Kaniska, the subject of the very gaudy fountain statue in Lanshi’s market square, the one with all the rearing horses?"

"Well, that's my grandfather, Kaniska the fourth, but I can see why you would make that error," Yazuka said mock-demurely.

"In other words: your father was the previous ruler of the city, and one of your sisters rules it today," Madara sighed, his headache finally migrating behind his right eye. "You couldn't have started with this?"

"Would you have trusted me if I had done so?" Samsi asked curiously. "Relying on personal bonds is never certain—Tobirama could attest to that best out of all of us! Besides that, I’ve been gone for years, I’m practically a foreigner myself. I’m sure the Council will say that I am only a tool of foreign shinobi. My sister cannot be seen listening to me overmuch."

Madara felt the pain of his headache sharpen, and he finally gave in and ground his palms against his eye sockets in a useless bid for relief. "You know, just when I think I've seen every possible permutation of all the sideways-talking idiocy people enjoy around here, I'm treated to yet another outstanding example. Why can't you people come at the problem the _normal_ way?"

Both Sotan and Samsi rolled their eyes in unison, identical expressions of extreme indifference on their faces. 

"Whatever," Samsi sighed apathetically, and she nonchalantly pushed her cup of water towards Madara. "Why don't you drink some water? You looked absolutely awful. You lowlanders really aren't cut out for the desert."

"Ain't that the truth," Sotan muttered, totally unfazed as Madara gave him a rather weak glare. "Now that you've gotten through half your daily quota of temper tantrums, you can make yourself useful and talk about how—"

"Wait," Madara said suddenly. "Why hasn't my brother come back with the Senju yet?"

* * *

By the time Madara managed to find Tobirama, the rain that had threatened all day had finally begun to fall, and the camp below the tower was bedlam as Uchiha and Sand nin alike chivvied the last of the refugees to the waystation, currently far above it's recommended occupancy limit, before they rushed to the closest shelter available. All of them, of course, except for a group of about a dozen people, congregated around the entrance to the mess. With a sinking feeling, Madara recognized Takeichi among their number, and he swerved off the path going towards the command shack, walking through the muddy ground towards the mess, an ancient, creaking canvas tent. The Sand-nin had contributed one to each outpost when they had joined forces as a symbol of their alliance, along with a relatively constant supply of food. By the time he reached the outskirts of the crowd, he could already see Tobirama's pale face, talking earnestly to Takeichi's second-in-command.

"Madara," Takeichi greeted, waving for the other man to join him. "Apparently, our new friend has more than one trick up his sleeve—and he's not shy about sharing, either."

Madara looked around at the other Uchiha, and realized that every single one that was capable had the Sharingan activated, and was watching Tobirama avidly—all of them, of course, save for Michiyo, who'd never been able to. But she was paying even closer attention to Tobirama than the others, with a sort of naked hunger in her dark eyes that Madara often saw in those of his kin who weren't... blessed. Mastery of the Great Fireball technique marked one as an adult, to be sure, but Madara was well aware that as children grew to adults a certain amount of stratification separated those who had the Sharingan from those who just didn't.

Suddenly, Tobirama gracefully knelt on the ground in front one of the mess tables, Michiyo following after him a second later, clumsy in comparison. Madara craned his neck a little to see over the crowd, but only saw a few canvas patches and what looked like two ink trays, complete with ink-stones and brushes, in front of them.

"Go on, activate your eyes," Takeichi urged. "We have no idea what's going on, but it's a hell of a show either way."

With a shrug, Madara did just that. Between one blink and the next, his vision transformed as it always did, into a vision of red and black and pulsing white chakra. Even after whatever trials he’d come through within the Forest, Tobirama was still a blazing sun in the center of the crowd, Michiyo a bright shining star next to him. Her black eye had healed somewhere between now and the last time he'd seen her. She'd probably done it herself—Michiyo made up for all that she lacked by using what little she did have inventively. Augmenting her naturally strong constitution with her large chakra reserves and cramming the recovery of ordinary injuries from days to mere hours was only one of the skills she had developed. Madara admitted, if only in the privacy of his own mind, what a shame it was that Michiyo had never activated the Sharingan. With the abilities of the eyes, and her natural chakra reserves, she would have been an excellent captain. It was testament to her determination how far she'd risen without it.

Madara squinted, and suddenly, their lips came into focus, even as the rain muffled their voices. Tobirama had finished grinding his ink, and wetting his brush, and was waiting patiently for Michiyo to finish. As soon as she did, he held out one large, calloused hand.

 _Do you have a knife?_ Tobirama asked. _Or a senbon, perhaps?_

Michiya nodded, and without any further words, she pulled a long, sharp senbon out of her braided bun, letting the braid fall free to her waist. 

_Thank you_ , Tobirama said, and then Madara saw him prick each fingertip of his right hand, as well as the center of his palm with the senbon. He held his hand over the ink well and let drops of blood fall into the ink, and Madara saw, with a start, that each drop was simply brimming with chakra. As each drop fell into the ink, the chakra spread into the whole of it.

 _How much you use depends on what you need to carry_ , Tobirama told Michiyo seriously. _But for objects that have no chakra in themselves, ten drops per ounce of ink is enough. Now you try._

Michiyo nodded, before reaching for the senbon and using the other side to prick her hand in the same place as Tobirama. She held her own hand over her inkwell, chakra laden blood dripping down, and after the requisite ten drops fell, Tobirama held her hand in his own, and Madara startled as he saw the man's chakra reach from his hand to Michiyo's, then begin fluctuating quickly, almost like a vibration. When the other man released his fist, Madara saw the bleeding marks were no more, although a half-healed scab remained: he'd healed both himself and Michiyo. The woman was looking at her hand with something like amazement. Madara felt the same way.

"That _is_ impressive," Madara murmured to Takeichi, and he wasn't lying. The clan was lucky if they had even one true healer a generation—it was a remarkably finicky skill, and not one the Uchiha in general had much skill with.

"That's not what's so amazing," Takeichi replied, eyes still on Tobirama. "Keep watching, you'll like this."

With the same effortless grace Tobirama exhibited in every movement, he took up his brush and dipped it in the chakra-laden ink. As before with Michiyo, he extended his chakra through the brush—and somehow, far more ink than normal was absorbed. When he lifted the brush up out of the inkwell, not a single drop fell. At his side, Michiyo copied his every movement with her own stilted gestures. Both of them hovered their brushes over the canvas, but didn't touch the fabric, not yet. 

_Now remember, be deliberate,_ Tobirama reminded her, almost absent-minded in his delivery, and as Madara watched, he used the brush to begin painting a series of arcane symbols on the cloth. They burned like white fire in Madara's sight, and he saw more than a few of the others shield their eyes from the fierce light.

"What in the name of..." Madara murmured, trying to see more details on the marks. They looked like the old seal script, the one the monk-recorders used when copying old scrolls. "Is he drawing them in a circle?"

"Keep watching," Takeichi said with anticipation. "Show's not over with yet."

Within a few minutes, Tobirama had inked a complete circle of seals on the canvas. Michiyo was far slower, but soon enough, she too had a circle of seals on the canvas in front of her. Both of them looked like a ring of stars.

 _Well done, you've improved the soku element_ , Tobirama complimented, and Michiyo smiled at him. 

Madara felt Takeichi shift at his side, and he sent an inquiring glance the other man's way. 

"You know, I've worked with Michiyo for nearly seven years, and in all that time, I can count on one hand the number of smiles I've seen from her," the other man said, face still turned towards Tobirama. No, Madara realized in a sudden rush, Takeichi had been looking at Michiyo the whole time. "This Master Koji really is a miracle-worker."

Madara couldn't think of anything to say to that, so he turned his attention back to the front, just in time to see Tobirama take the rest of the inkstone from his well and lay it in the circle of the seals, Michiyo still mimicking him. 

_Now, all that remains to do is channel chakra into the seals_ , Tobirama lectured the other woman. _And if all goes well, it should be stored. We'll do it together on three. One. Two. Three-_

And on cue, each inkstone disappeared in a puff of smoke.

"Amaterasu's burning tears," Madara gasped, and he wasn’t the only one: all around him, at least half the Uchiha were swearing too.

"Yeah, it's really something else, isn't it?" Izuna said right in Madara's ear. "Brother, I've been looking for you all over camp—why am I not surprised you're here?"

Madara liked to think it was to his credit he only twitched very slightly at his brother's unexpected arrival. "Izuna," he stuttered. "Your voice...?"

"Turns out the mysterious Master Koji is more than just a one-trick pony," Izuna explained, touching his throat almost as an afterthought. He sounds like he only has a bad cold. "And speaking of that, let's go somewhere private. We need to talk."

* * *

The brothers ended up huddled underneath the overhang of the command shack. Inside, Madara could hear the mutters of a dozen sleepy children, Shigeru's strident tone rising above them all. It wasn't particularly private at the best of times, but with the rain, it wasn't the best of times, and anyone who would have wanted to listen in was in their tent anxiously waiting for the rain to end.

"What happened to watching the dangerous exiled Senju?" Madara asked pointedly, shivering a little in his armour. He was going to have to clean and oil it after this, but he was going to have to do that anyway—he'd gotten zetsu guts all over it, and the stuff was worse than pitch for gumming gear up.

“He’s busy ingratiating himself with every member of our clan,” Izuna said flatly. “Or haven’t you noticed, between marveling at his acts of fortitude and generosity?”

Madara recoiled at the acid in his brother’s voice. “Izuna…?”

Izuna closed his eyes for one brief second and heaved a short sigh. “You know, I honestly thought it was funny that Hashirama had put a bounty on his brother’s head? I never thought to think about how little sense that made. Why would Hashirama want his only surviving brother in chains?”

“Because his brother is rebelling against him?” Madara suggested impatiently. “Hashirama hasn’t shown himself much for family loyalty.”

“No,” Izuna said flatly. “Hashirama hasn’t, but Tobirama has—he always followed Hashirama’s lead, even when they were boys! Why would he rebel then, right as his brother took control over their clan? Why would he continue to rebel now?”

“Because Senju Hashirama is a crazy person,” Shigeru said irritably, suddenly emerging from inside the hut. “Can you two keep it down, by the way? I finally got those kids to lie down and go to sleep, and you’re going to wake them up.”

Shigeru had taken off her armor, and was just wearing the pale blood-flecked robes all the sand-nin wore as a base layer. She looked exhausted, and Madara suddenly remembered all the work she’d done today: a man’s job, to be sure. 

“Move,” she said baldly, and Izuna silently stepped out of her way. Madara didn’t bother, and she huffed at him as she walked past, stopping a little shy of the road and briskly unwrapping the bandages on her hands. A few handseals, and suddenly, there was a loud bang. Madara swore as he felt his inner ears pop and his eyes water from a sudden change in the air pressure.

“Shigeru, what are you doing?” he snarled, all sympathy lost.

“Calling someone more competent than you, of course,” a supercilious voice informed him haughtily. As the smoke cleared, Madara saw a tall, furry creature dressed like a monk out of the history scrolls, bearing a well-used _kata kai_.

“Kamanishi of the Weasels,” it said with a slight nod, and turned back to Shigeru. “What would you have of me, o tumbleweed queen?”

Shigeru’s face twisted unpleasantly, but she kept a leash on her temper. “There’s a bunch of kids in there. Watch over them until I get back; ensure they don’t leave.”

The weasel shrugged lithely. “As you say, little thornbush.”

And with those words, he sauntered right past the brothers and slipped through the doorway into the shack.

“Shigeru, your stupid summons is going to get fur everywhere,” Izuna groaned.

“Well, that’s tough, Commander,” she retorted. “But I can’t be two places at once, so you’ll have to suffer a reminder of Kamanishi’s presence.”

“And why do you need to be two places at once?” Madara interrupted hastily. Long experience in being Izuna’s older brother led him to see this as the beginning of a very annoying conversation. 

“There are ten kids in that room,” Shigeru responded. “There’s supposed to be eleven. Where’s the blind girl?”

It took a moment for Madara’s brain to connect Shigeru’s query with the child he’d left sleeping in a bedroll near the watchtower stove. When it did, he swore a little under his breath.

“The girl’s in the watchtower,” he said. He didn’t bother to apologize for the oversight in custody, or excuse himself by saying Sotan could watch her; after a day like this, they were all lucky Sotan was upright and speaking coherently. “I left her sleeping in a bedroll near the campstove, with that merchant woman.”

“That merchant woman’s name is Samsi; try to remember it, she’s the person who delivered the last big shipment of weed killer,” Shigeru said pointedly. Shigeru had developed quite an impressive glare for a young lady. “You know, the thing that saved all of our lives out there today?”

“...it was Senju who saved us,” Madara eventually shot back, although it was a weak retort at best. He immediately regretted saying it as soon as the words left his lips; Izuna clenched his fists so hard Madara could hear the metal scale squeal as it was stretched. 

Shigeru just pursed her lips. “I’m going to get the girl and bring her back here so I can keep track of them. They’re not ordinary orphans, and I don’t want one of them wandering around without supervision, let alone that one. When I get back, please finish your extremely important brother talk and come to a decision, because nobody likes a disagreement in command staff.”

And with that she turned and started the walk up the hill, resolutely marching through the muck of the trail. Madara turned to look at Izuna, a complaint about the girl’s sheer gall ready to come out—but stopped when he saw Izuna’s serious face and outstretched left hand, fingers already in half the sign of the horse. Madara silently reached out with his own right hand, forming the other half of the horse seal. When their hands met, they let their chakra intertwine and the technique take hold.

Nothing seemed to change afterwards, but Madara knew from long practice that as long as he and his brother actively molded their chakra and worked together, they were invisible.

“Tell me how Senju answered your questions during the interview,” Izuna demanded. “He must have convinced you of his sincerity somehow.”

Madara was taken aback: for once, there had been no jibes about his terrible taste in men. “You wouldn’t fool around with our clan’s safety,” Izuna said in response to the unspoken question. “Not for a pretty face.”

Madara just ignored that as unbearably soppy and unworthy of men, and moved onto the actual reason they were using this awkward, difficult jutsu. “He told me the truth, I suppose. He’d left his family because they joined with Hashirama, although of course I thought at the time he meant another clan, not the Senju themselves.”

“Did he give a reason why?” Izuna interrogated.

Madara thought on it a bit more. “...No. He implied it was a choice between doing the right thing and the easy thing—”

“What a bucket of dog piss,” Izuna exclaimed. His hand twitched minutely, but Madara almost unconsciously adjusted for it. “Did he seriously imply that he chose some kind of higher good over his family? This is obviously a trap!” 

“Everything is a trap to you,” Madara retorted. “You’re the one who pointed out there’s an active bounty on him. Are you really going to argue that it’s all a lie?”

“Alive,” Izuna replied. “I went and looked it up; the bounty was specifically for his capture and return to Senju forces, not his head.”

“Where are you going with this?” Madara ordered. “My hand is starting to cramp up, so take the direct route for once.”

“How many people desert their clan?” Izuna asked instead, the exact opposite of a direct and forthright explanation. “I can only think of three: Kuragane Sakutaro, Sasada Naora, and Hiraki Takafumi. The first is fictional, the second defected directly to another clan, and the third died within three months of abandoning his kin. Who in this harsh world can survive without the support of a family? No one. There’s a ten year gap between Senju leaving his family and showing up here, and I can’t think of a single explanation for it. Who protected him from Hashirama between then and now?”

“He’s dressed like a monk, so maybe a monastery?” Madara suggested wearily. Izuna treated that suggestion as it deserved. The clergy of the Sage’s Way vacillated between disapproval for Hashirama’s violence, and praise for his stated aim of a peaceful continent. They were of no use whatsoever.

“No,” Izuna said again. “He’s working as a double agent. That’s how he’s managed to create this Resistance that no one ever makes real contact with, and that’s how this so-called Resistance managed to lose all of the Land of Fire without a single defeat on Hashirama’s part. The bounty is just there to make it look realistic for the rest of the family and the other clans. If they ever capture Tobirama—”

“-They’ll bring him back alive out of respect for Hashirama’s wishes,” Madara said bleakly. It made sense—too much sense. But—

“How do you explain Samsi?” Madara said. “You weren’t there when she talked about Hashirama. She hates him, and everything he stands for. I barely know the woman, but I doubt she’s any kind of Senju patsy.”

Izuna had to think about that for a minute. “She might not know?”

Madara couldn’t shrug without dislodging their linked hands, so he settled for rolling his eyes. “That seems unlikely, just on the nature of the one conversation I’ve had with her. And really, Izuna, this still seems like guesswork to me: for a spy, Tobirama is being awfully helpful—healing your throat, teaching Michiyo whatever that trick with the ink was…”

“If we’re all going to die soon, what does it matter what he does beforehand?” Izuna asked bluntly. “It’s all just meant to ingratiate himself anyway.”

“If you really believe that, you would have told the clan already and bound him in chains,” Madara said. The cramps were moving up his forearm; it felt like it was on fire.

“I would,” Izuna replied, no hint of exhaustion on the stubborn lines of his face. “But we need the recipe to the weed killer, and I don’t think we can torture it out of him—not here, at least.”

And finally, Madara understood what Izuna was getting out. “You want me to bring him to Aunt Miwa and have her work on him,” Madara said, and then stopped. It wasn’t half-bad an idea…

“That could work,” he said, considering. “I’ll need to take him to Lanshi to bind his organization closer to us anyway. If it turns out to be a front, he’ll be far away from the Forest, and Miwa is still capable of using _that_ technique. We’ll be able to salvage something out of this mess.”

Madara tried to unclasp his hands from Izuna, but Izuna only clapped his right hand over Madara’s left. “Why are you being so compliant? It’s not like you,” Izuna asked with more than a little bit of suspicion.

“I think this whole idea that the Alchemist is really a Senju front is too complicated to be likely,” Madara said, as honest as the day was long. “But maybe there’s a simpler reason Tobirama survived. What if Tobirama didn’t escape?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Izuna said. 

“I mean, true deserters are rare; succession disputes are more common,” Madara said pointedly.

Izuna’s eyes widened in realization. “You think there’s a faction inside the Senju. You think we can use that.”

“You said it yourself: why would Tobirama rebel against his brother right on the eve of Hashirama’s ascension to head of his clan? But not all clans are like ours...” Madara said leadingly.

“...and not all brothers are like us,” Izuna agreed, nodding seriously. He finally let go of Madara’s hand, and the illusion hiding them from other eyes and ears dissipated like mist in the rain. 

“So. Let’s go find our wayward hero of the hour and escort him back to the tower,” Madara said, clapping a hand to the back of Izuna’s neck and shaking him gently before releasing him. The two brothers walked back towards the mess tent side-by-side. Madara felt better now they had come to an agreement. He never felt right, being at odds with Izuna. But all the same, he still didn’t mention the true reason he thought Tobirama was truthful.

Hashirama didn’t need subterfuge to destroy the Uchiha. He never had, and he never would. The clan had only lived long enough to flee that last, apocalyptic battle with the God of Shinobi by the shores of the Nakano River because Hashirama had let them go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here, about six weeks later than I intended, is the next part. My thanks to both crowind and Hiruma Musouka for their unending patience; my thanks to all the anonymous and not-so-anonymous people who wrote to ask how it was going, because the support was greatly appreciated. I hope this lives up to your expectations! :D


	4. Interlude: Children of the Closed Canopy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun is a strange thing to children who have known only the shadows of Hashirama's great forest.

"He was here. My brother, I mean."

Tōka looked at her cousin side-long before surveying the room again. There was a small fortune in high-end glass, smashed to pieces on the floor; another fortune in ceramics, similarly destroyed; and a suspicious lack of notes— _any_ notes, of any kind. There were other rooms just like this one all throughout the compound—and underneath, there was... well, cellar didn't really describe it. It was a whole underground counterpart to the rooms above, filled with room after room of vats and mixers and a rather cunning heating and cooling system, all of it presumably dedicated to the mass production of the liquid known as "weed killer". It had taken three days and a very dedicated team of Akimichi to uncover it—whoever had placed the explosives to collapse the tunnels had known exactly which supportive struts needed to fall for maximum obstruction.

There had been strong hopes that the outlaw who called himself the Alchemist would be caught up in the final sweep after the walls fell, either within the city proper or by the zetsu traversing the Forest. Fortune had not favored their hopes, however. None of the prisoners knew anything of worth. But at least the fall of Kurashiki's walls had led to this: the destruction of a large part, if not the entirety, of the Alchemist's productive capacity. Without a new patron, it was unlikely the man would be able to rebuild. No new weed killer would be produced for a long time, if ever again.

"What makes you say that, Hashirama?" Tōka questioned, a little skeptical. "Last I heard, Subaru's team was hunting him out in Iron Country—wasn't he seen in one of their towns, hiring ronin?"

"My honorable father-in-law has reported that a white-haired man was found in the town of Ye, gathering ronin to his banner, but it turned out to be the first cousin to the current daimyo—some kind of argument regarding the succession, I think?" Hashirama rubbed the back of his neck and laughed in embarrassment. 

"Subaru killed him, didn't he," Tōka said flatly. "How large an indemnity are we paying to Iron's daimyo?"

"Oh, I don't really know..." Hashirama said. "I left that to Jingwei, you know she's much better at negotiating than I am."

"That's a really low bar to pass, cousin. And shouldn't Jingwei be on bedrest? I'm not sure bullying the delegation from Iron is good for a woman in her condition," Tōka responded, more than a little doubtful. "Actually, never mind. Jingwei is always happiest when she has a new skull to add to her throne."

"Tōka!" Hashirama exclaimed, half-shocked and half amused. "You know Jingwei is very selective about her trophies—she won't settle for just anyone's head!"

Tōka pretended to think for a moment, before solemnly nodding in agreement. "You're right. Jingwei has very rarefied taste. She absolutely won't settle for anybody less than the daimyo himself."

There was a moment of absolute silence between the cousins, and then both of them burst out laughing.

"But seriously, why do you say that Tobirama was here?" Tōka asked again a moment later.

Hashirama just scanned the room again, eyes a little unfocused. "Just a lot of little things. The layout of the room feels familiar; the way everything was so meticulously destroyed is reminiscent of his habits when we were children..."

Tōka just raised one eyebrow, skeptical.

Hashirama just heaved a sigh and shrugged a little helplessly. "You're too young to really remember him, Tōka. It's not obvious, but it's _there_."

He turned and began walking to the exit, passing from the darkened rooms to the blazing light of the late afternoon sun. Sunset was still several hours away by Tōka's reckoning. Maybe less, or maybe more; she spent so much time in the Forest, it was hard to gauge time from the passage of the sun. A lot of the younger members of the Senju coalition had the same problem. As Tōka shadowed her cousin as he began walking through the main boulevard to the center of the city, she kept glancing at the sky again and again. It was quite novel to see it, she had to admit, but she did miss the comforting twilight of the Forest. 

"It's a little disappointing," Hashirama said suddenly. 

"What is?" Tōka replied absentmindedly, one eye still on the empty streets. Trees were already sprouting through the roadway; in a few months, Kurashiki would be totally overtaken. Maybe faster, if Hashirama applied himself.

"Tobirama being the Alchemist," Hashirama answered, and behind him, Tōka choked. "I was hoping to convince him to return home, but—"

"Cousin," Tōka stated in a flat tone. "Did you really think a _kinslayer_ would ever return _willingly_?"

"He's my brother," Hashirama replied tightly, and loosened his hold on his monstrous chakra just a tad. Just enough for Tōka to feel as though she were suffocating. He clamped it back down after a moment, and waited another moment for Tōka to catch her breath. 

_How considerate_ , Tōka thought sarcastically. _He's letting me recover._

"Anyway, it doesn't matter anymore," Hashirama continued, as though there hadn't been a break in the conversation. "What does matter is capturing him as soon as possible. If Tobirama is the Alchemist, he'll probably start production again within a month; faster if he already has a patron in Wind Country. I think I'm going to reassign you to a new team, cousin—a strike team designed to capture him once and for all."

Before Tōka could say anything in response they reached the central square. A selection of half a dozen prisoners were waiting there, guarded by a detail from the Fourth Battalion. It wasn’t particularly necessary, however: every single one of them were merchants and craftsman, just like the rest of Kurashiki. There wasn’t a single warrior among them.

"Good afternoon!" Hashirama called exuberantly. "Now, I've been informed by my generals that you’re all that remains of Kurashiki's Guild Council. Do you have a spokesman?"

There was a long pause, and then an older woman shuffled forward. "Tsujimura Moeka. Mistress of the Rice Merchants," she said dully.

"Excellent! I'm very glad to meet you, Mistress Tsujimura. Do you speak for the council, or just yourself?" Hashirama enquired politely.

"Both. Cut to the chase: you've conquered the city. What do you want?" 

Hashirama faltered a bit, before regrouping his never-ending cheer. "Ideally, I would like you to swear an oath of loyalty to me and my village," he said, with a winning smile. "In return, Kurashiki would remain standing, and you and your people would continue living and working here—"

"—with some conditions, of course," Tōka interrupted, giving her cousin a very specific glare.

"—with some conditions," Hashirama parroted, already rubbing the back of his neck. "How do you feel about that?"

The old woman glanced at Tōka before looking back at Hashirama, totally dismissing the girl beside him. Tōka tried not to bristle. Old people always did that, as though the idea of a teenage girl leading an army was so much more unbelievable than, say, a man who made forests spontaneously grow out of meadow and plain.

"No," the woman answered, and within her eyes Tōka saw something unexpected: a deep wellspring of resistance.

"No?" Hashirama repeated, puzzled. "I assure you, these are _very_ generous terms, you're not going to ge—"

"I said no. Terms from an oathbreaker mean nothing," the old woman reiterated. "There will be no deal."

"You should reconsider, Mistress Moeka," Hashirama said, frowning a bit. "I don't know what you've heard about me, but—"

"She said no. That goes for all of us, as well," another man said, middle-aged and a bit thick around the middle. "There will be no deals with an oathbreaker."

One by one, the other four prisoners voiced their agreement. Hashirama paced up and down the line, staring them straight in the eye. 

"Are you sure there's no way we can discuss this?" He asked forlornly. None of them bothered to answer.

Hashirama sighed deeply, disappointed to his very bones. Touka had heard his sighs so many times over the last few years. By now, she could categorize them based only on length of duration and depth of the sigh in question. "Very well. You leave me no choice." 

And in the space of a single breath, the guildmasters _transformed_. The old woman didn’t scream, but she was the only one.

"How magnificent: a cypress," Hashirama marveled, one hand on the trunk of the tree that used to be Tsujimura Moeka. "It's such a waste, though. She would have been an incredible asset to the village."

Tōka only nodded her head in response, then gestured to the captain of the guard detail. "Shihei," she called out. "Bring in the next group."

"Maybe we'll have better luck with them," Hashirama said hopefully.

Tōka just made a noncommittal sound. She rather doubted it.

* * *

“You’ll burn if you don’t get out of the sun.”

Ying almost didn’t understand the words, distorted as they were by the weirdly melodic cadence in the language of everyone west of the Yan River. But after a moment, she puzzled out the meaning—and promptly burst out laughing. Master Koji would scold her for what he called her unbearable rudeness, but honestly, Ying didn’t know how she could have stopped herself. After all, who’d ever heard of burning in the sun?

“Hey, stop laughing,” the sand-nin girl sighed in response. Her voice wasn’t angry like Ying would have expected, just tired. “You don’t know how many flatlanders I’ve seen laid low because they didn’t understand how strong the sun is the closer you get to the desert. Why aren’t you with the others in the shelter I made?”

Ying didn’t turn her face towards the kunoichi—another scolding offense from Master Koji, although only if he caught her doing it. Sometimes it annoyed her, because turning her face _towards_ a person necessarily meant turning her ears _away_ from them, and it’s not like Ying could see them, anyway. But Master Koji wasn’t here. He was too preoccupied with keeping a watchful eye on the Uchiha lord to pay too much attention to Ying, his first and favorite student. 

So Ying stubbornly kept her face turned away from the sand-nin, and listened as the older girl picked her way over the scree towards Ying’s perch at the edge of the hill’s steep slope—not that it really helped. All the stories had said the shinobi who lived in the Great Western Desert wore cloaks of white and walked as quietly as a whisper in the night wind, unheard by ordinary folk until it was far too late. Ying didn’t know if Shigeru even wore a cloak, but she could attest the stories were true on that last part: an ordinary person would never hear them coming. Even Ying, trained for years in the shinobi arts by Master Koji, could barely hear Shigeru’s light footsteps, or even the sound all clothing made when it was in motion.

But out here in the desert, Ying could use another talent to track her, one she’d had few chances to use while living within the smothering confines of the Forest—she could sense Shigeru’s chakra, just as Master Koji had said. Ying leaned back a bit, the palms of her hands in firm contact with the sandy earth, and opened her inner eye. There! Shigeru’s chakra was like a spinning top moving slowly across the empty land between the thorny brush around their camp and the hillside drop-off Ying was sitting upon. Shigeru’s chakra felt both light and heavy in equal measure, and Ying spared a few seconds to wonder why that was. Master Koji’s chakra always felt heavy and overbearing, exactly like that time Ying had hidden in the bottom of a crate full of linens to escape from Pingcheng, and Lady Samsi always felt sort of coiled up and sharp at the same time, exactly like the heavy gauge wire Mama had used in her work. But there was no more time to think on that, for Shigeru was upon her.

“I asked a question,” Shigeru said, her voice lilting up a little at the end of her statement. Ying listened closely. If Shigeru spoke like other Westerners, then Ying was determined to be an expert in what their tones meant by the time she reached Lanshi. “Or has your Master not taught you the manners of a little baby in a cradle?”

Ying smiled very widely, and lied through her teeth. “Oh, well, if it’s an answer you’re wanting… I wanted to see the sunrise.”

There was a moment where Ying could feel Shigeru’s chakra suddenly spin much, much faster— and just as soon as Ying noticed it, the spin slowed to the original slow pace. 

_That was interesting_ , Ying thought. _Does all chakra do that when people get mad? I’ll have to pay attention to the others and see._

“Fine,” Shigeru said with a huff. “Be that way. But I’m not joking about the sun burning you if you stay out. At least put a hood on.”

And without so much as a by-your-leave, Yang felt a heavy mass hit the top of her head. 

“Hey!” she shouted indignantly, pulling her hands off the ground to scrabble at whatever had been thrown at her head. “What’d you do that for?”

“I told you to cover up,” Shigeru said unsympathetically. “So cover up, I don't want to listen to your crying when you get burned so badly you blister.” 

Ying ignored Shigeru in favor of pulling whatever she'd thrown on her head _off._ It was some kind of fine-woven fabric, and as she rubbed it between her fingers, she frowned. It felt like simple cloth, but Ying didn’t recognize the texture. It wasn’t silk: it was too rough against the pads of her fingers. It wasn’t linen: the cloth was too limp for that. And it wasn’t wool: that always had a particular rough feel this lacked. So what was it?

“What is this?” she demanded. “It doesn’t feel like any cloth I’ve felt before.”

“It’s cotton,” Shigeru replied. “Now wrap it around your head in a turban so you don’t get sun-sick.”

“Tell me more about cotton, first,” Ying bargained. “Animal, plant, or mineral?”

“It’s a plant they grow in Tenjiku,” Shigeru answered impatiently. “It’s part of the payment we get from each caravan we escort across the desert. But I guess you’ve never seen it, huh? It’s pretty expensive on the open market—"

“But the plant—this cotton—it was grown in Tenjiku, right?” Ying interrupted. “All the way across the Great Western Desert?”

“Yeah, you heard me the first time,” Shigeru snapped as she stepped behind Ying’s back. “Now let me put that hood on for you, if you won’t do it yourself.”

Ying obediently let Shigeru wrap the cloth around her face and head. It made her skin crawl just thinking about it, the idea that a possible weapon was so close to her nose and mouth, but she didn’t say anything out loud until Shigeru had finished wrapping and tucking the cloth to her satisfaction.

“That’s better,” the older girl said, satisfaction oozing from her voice. “But you should still get to shelter until we leave for next night’s travel, this is only going to protect you so far—"

“You answered my question, so let me trade you some information, kunoichi to kunoichi,” Ying said. She was proud she hadn’t hesitated when saying the word _kunoichi_. It was strange to think that’s what people would see her as these days... “You know the leader of the Senju controls all plants, right?”

“Yes…?” Shigeru replied, drawing out the word. “I’m pretty sure everyone knows that.” 

“Well, let me tell you something not everyone knows: he doesn’t just control all plants, but everything made from plants, too,” Ying explained slowly. Luckily, she didn’t really need to say it again—Shigeru caught on quickly.

“So he can control cloth made from plants, too. And I guess wooden objects, too,” Shigeru stated flatly. “Have you seen this?”

Ying shook her head. “No, I’ve never seen it myself. But you know Yasukoki, the tall boy with the nasally voice? His village was destroyed that way. Everyone’s clothes and fabric just strangled them in an instant. He only survived because he was skinny-dipping in the river.”

For the first time, Ying could hear Shigeru’s breath. It was an uneven gasping wheeze. It filled the air between them for a moment before Shigeru crouched down beside Ying. 

“Why?” she finally asked. “Why kill all those people? That kid is just a peasant! His family can’t have been any threat?”

“You act like there has to be a reason,” Ying said reasonably, plastering her fake smile back onto her face. The cotton fabric felt strange against her lips “But the only reason Senju Hashirama does anything is because he can.”

“What kind of answer is that?” Shigeru hissed directly into Ying’s ear. Ying fought the urge to flinch in response. “That’s a horrible thing to do to people!”

“So it would be better if there _was_ a reason?” Ying asked curiously, leaning back on her palms once again. It also had the benefit of getting her head away from Shigeru’s too-close voice. “What if they were rebelling against his rule? What if they refused to pay their taxes? What if they were saying rude things about his wife? Would that make it better?”

“ _No_ ,” Shigeru said fiercely. Her chakra now felt like the windstorm they’d been caught in on the third night of their journey towards Lanshi: very fast and very, very strong. Ying could still feel the pinprick-pain of that terrible wind throwing grains of sand into her face, before Shigeru had made a shelter out of the earth for them to huddle in until it passed. “No, it doesn’t make it any better. It’s still a horrible thing to do to people!”

“What if he was getting paid for it?” Ying said, as reasonably as she could. “Shinobi do all sorts of awful things to people for money. Isn’t that how you people earn your daily bowl of rice?”

“ _You people?_ ” Shigeru repeated, a twist of revulsion in her voice. “Maybe that’s what lowlander nin are like, but you don’t know anything about the desert, and you sure don’t know anything about me or mine!”

It was a little easier to hear Shigeru leave than arrive. Her footfalls weren’t any louder than before, and her clothing still didn’t make a sound, but this time, Ying could hear the sound of her audible breath moving further away, heaving as though the other girl had run miles upon miles. Ying waited until she couldn’t hear Shigeru at all, and then waited some more, watching with her newly-opened inner eye as the the sand-nin’s furiously spinning chakra core moved closer to the brightly burning stars that were probably Master Koji and Lord Madara.

Then, and only then, did Ying take her hands off the ground. Only then, assured of her privacy, did she make the sign of the Snake, fingers intertwined and palms together. And only then did she stop smiling, letting a frown of concentration appear on her face instead. New place, new ground, and new techniques to practice. This was the pattern of her life, every since she had come into Master Koji’s care, and Ying saw no reason to change it now.

Not yet, at least. Not until she can protect herself from all the enemies the strong and powerful could throw at the poor and weak and _useless_ of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to everyone who has read so far; your comments here and directed towards my tumblr have made me so very happy :D
> 
> The next arc: "the tempest in a teapot", where Tobirama and Madara travel to Lanshi, the gateway to the Western Desert, and together find far more trouble than they ever would have found apart.


End file.
